“Keep quiet!” ordered Dalroy sternly. “We cannot murder four men in cold blood. I’ll listen over there by the window. You two remain here till I call you.”
But there was no need for eavesdropping. Léontine’s voice was raised shrilly above the loud-clanging talk and laughter of the uninvited guests. “No, no, my mother must stay!” she was shrieking. “Monsieur, for God’s sake, leave my mother alone! Ah, you are hurting her.—Father! father!—Oh, what shall we do? Is there no one to help us?”
CHAPTER VI
THE FIGHT IN THE MILL
As Dalroy burst open the door, which was locked, the heartrending screams of the three women mingled with the vile oaths of their assailants. He had foreseen that the door would probably be fastened, and put his whole strength into the determination to force the bolt without warning. The scene which met his eyes as he rushed into the room was etched in Rembrandt lights and shadows by a lamp placed in the centre of the table.
Near a staircase—not that which led to the lofts, but the main stairway of the domestic part of the dwelling—Madame Joos was struggling in the grip of the orderly and one of the lieutenants. Another of these heroes—they all belonged to a Westphalian detachment of the commissariat—was endeavouring to overpower Irene. His left arm pinned her left arm to her waist; his right arm had probably missed a similar hold, because the girl’s right arm was free. She had seized his wrist, and was striving to ward off a brutal effort to prevent her from shrieking. Busch, that stout satyr, was seated. Dalroy learnt subsequently that the sudden hubbub arose because Irene resisted his attempt to pull her on to his knee. The last of the younger men was clasping Léontine to his breast with rascally intent to squeeze the breath out of her until she was unable to struggle further.
Now Dalroy had to decide in the fifth part of a second whence danger would first come, and begin the attack there. The four officers had laid aside their swords, but the lieutenants had retained belts and revolvers. Busch, as might be expected, was only too pleased to get rid of his equipment. His tunic was unbuttoned, so that he might gorge at ease. Somehow, Dalroy knew that Irene would not free the hand which was now closing on her mouth. The two Walloons carried short forks with four prongs—Joos had taken to heart the Englishman’s comment on the disadvantage of a pitchfork for close fighting—and Jan Maertz might be trusted to deal with the ruffian who was nearly strangling Léontine. There remained the gallant lieutenant whose sense of humour permitted the belief that the best way to force onward a terrified elderly woman was to plant a knee against the small of her back. He had looked around at once when the door flew open, and his right hand was already on the butt of an automatic pistol. Him, therefore, Dalroy bayoneted so effectually that a startled oath changed into a dreadful howl ere the words left his lips. The orderly happened to be nearer than the officer, so, as the bayonet did its work, Dalroy kicked the lout’s feet from under him, and thrust him through the body while on the floor. A man who had once won the Dholepur Cup, which is competed for by the most famous pig-stickers in India, knew how to put every ounce of weight behind the keen point of a lance, because an enraged boar is the quickest and most courageous fighter among all the fierce creatures of the jungle. But he was slightly too near his quarry; the bayonet reached the stone floor through the man’s body, and snapped at the forte.