It was over in a second, and the maniacal slayer seemed to be looking around for new victims.
“Good!” ejaculated Jai Singh. “There is a man! Quick as a panther! And how he can strike! He went clean through the skull and halfway through the shoulder before his blade turned.”
Jai Singh had become suddenly filled with the blood fury that always lay a little below the surface in him, and he would have dashed forward with his spear, to fight anybody or anything, if Nick Carter had not held him back.
“Stop!” he commanded in the Hindu’s ear, in stern tones. “This is not our business. Keep out! We shall have enough fighting before we are through. I’ll tell you when to use your spear.”
Jai Singh panted with eagerness to get into the fray.
“But, sahib,” he returned, in a hoarse murmur, “if I could stand back to back with that man for a few moments—he with that sword of his, and I with my spear—there would be a fight that you would like to see. We two could eat up the whole guard of the old priest, and do what we liked in Shangore!”
Nick Carter only waved his hand, and gradually Jai Singh subsided.
The strength and agility of the man who had run amuck were amazing. He escaped from the ring of spears that hedged him in, seemingly by a miracle. His sword flashed up and down, finding its mark each time. He might have been invincible.
Numbers told at last, however. As the man’s arm tired, a spear was thrust into his chest. He sprang back, with a roar of rage, and flourished his sword valiantly. But it was no use. Another spear was embedded between his shoulder blades from behind, and he dropped—dead.
The body was picked up and flung carelessly aside, the dead and wounded guards were carried into a house near by, and the procession moved on as if there had been no interruption.