“Yield?” he roared. “Yield to you, you cut-throat scum? You shall have my sword if you will come for it, but you shall have it in your throat.”
Angered in his turn, Fortunio inclined his head to his companion’s ear, issuing an order. In obedience to it, it was the bravo now who advanced and engaged Garnache. Suddenly he dropped on to his knees, and over his head Garnache found his blade suddenly opposed by Fortunio’s. It was a clever trick, and it all but did Garnache’s business then. Yet together with the surprise of it there came to him the understanding of what was intended. Under his guard the kneeling man’s sword was to be thrust up into his vitals. As a cry of alarm broke from mademoiselle, he leapt aside and towards the wall, where he was covered from Fortunio’s weapon, and turning suddenly he passed his sword from side to side through the body of the kneeling mercenary.
The whole thing he had performed mechanically, more by instinct than by reason; and when it was done, and the tables were thus effectively turned upon his assailants, he scarcely realized how he had accomplished it.
The man’s body cumbered now the doorway, and behind him Fortunio stood, never daring to advance lest a thrust of that sword which he could not see—Garnache still standing close against the wall—should serve him likewise.
Garnache leaned there, in that friendly shelter, to breathe, and he smiled grimly under cover of his mustache. So long as he had to deal with a single assailant he saw no need to move from so excellent a position. Close beside him, leaning heavily against the table she had dragged thus far, stood Valerie, her face livid as death, her heart sick within her at the horror inspired her by that thing lying on the threshold. She could not take her eyes from the crimson stain that spread slowly on the floor, coming from under that limply huddled mass of arms and legs.
“Do not look, mademoiselle,” Garnache implored her softly. “Be brave, child; try to be brave.”
She sought to brace her flagging courage, and by an effort she averted her eyes from that horrid heap and fixed them upon Garnache’s calm, intrepid face. The sight of his quietly watchful eyes, his grimly smiling lips, seemed to infuse courage into her anew.
“I have the table, monsieur,” she told him. “I can bring it no nearer to the wall.”
He understood that this was not because her courage or her strength might be exhausted, but because he now occupied the spot where he had bidden her place it. He motioned her away, and when she had moved he darted suddenly and swiftly aside and caught the table, his sword still fast in his two first fingers, which he had locked over the quillons. He had pushed its massive weight halfway across the door before Fortunio grasped the situation. Instantly the captain sought to take advantage of it, thinking to catch Garnache unawares. But no sooner did he show his nose inside the doorpost than Garnache’s sword flashed before his eyes, driving him back with a bloody furrow in his cheek.
“Have a care, Monsieur le Capitaine,” Garnache mocked him. “Had you come an inch farther it might have been the death of you.”