He reached for and drew the sword-bayonet that hung at his side (for his second pistol had become lost in the scrimmage), and thrust blindly about him. Once, twice his blade met resistance and struck into flesh.
“Jack,” panted Alan, “the beast’s stabbing. Get yourself loose and find the electric light.”
As he spoke, Alan’s hand found the gaoler’s throat. He knew it was not Alan’s from the rough beard that covered it. The gaoler, maddened by the pressure, stabbed with fresh fury; most of his blows, fortunately, going wild in the darkness.
Alan’s free hand reached for and located the arm that was wielding the bayonet, and for a moment the two wrestled desperately for its possession.
Then a key clicked, and the room was flooded with incandescent light, just as Alan, releasing his grip on the Russian’s throat, dealt him a short-arm blow on the chin with all the power of his practiced muscles. The gaoler relaxed his tense limbs and lay still, while Alan, bleeding and exhausted, struggled to his feet.
“Hot work, eh?” he panted. “Hard position to land a knockout from. But I caught him just right. He’ll trouble us no more for a few minutes, I fancy. You’re bleeding! Did he wound you?”
“Only a scratch along my check. And you?”
“A cut on the wrist and another on the shoulder, I think. Neither of them bad, thanks to the lack of aim in the dark. Close call, that! Now to tie them up. Not a movement from either yet.”
“You must have come close to killing them with those sledge-hammer blows of yours!”
“It doesn’t much matter,” said the imperturbable pugilist, “they’ll be all right in half an hour. It’s knowing where to hit. If there are only four men downstairs, we don’t need to wear the clothes of these beasts. Let us take only the bunch of keys and the revolvers.”