The man who had been under the fallen spinet had now extricated himself, and regained his feet, and he and Colden rushed on Peyton at once. Elated by having so speedily wrought Elizabeth’s release, and reduced the number of his able adversaries to two, Peyton bethought himself of a new plan. He fled through the deep doorway to the east hall, and took position on the staircase. He turned just in time to parry Colden’s sword, which the major had picked up and made shift to hold in his wrapped-up, wounded hand. Harry saw that an opportune stroke might send the sword from his enemy’s numb and weakening grasp, and his heart swelled with anticipated triumph, until he heard Colden’s hoarse cry:
“Shoot him, James, while I keep him occupied!”
This order was now the more practicable from Harry’s being on the stairs, above Colden, a great part of his body exposed to an aim that could not endanger his antagonist. Breathing heavily, his eyes afire with hatred, Colden repeated his attacks, while Harry saw the other’s musket raised, the barrel looking him in the eyes. He leaped a step higher, swung 278 his broken sword against the pendent chandelier, knocked the only burning candle from its socket, and threw the hall into darkness. A moment later the gun went off, giving an instant’s red flame, a loud crack, and a smell of gunpowder smoke. Harry heard a swift singing near his right ear, and knew that he was untouched.
Lest Colden’s sword, thrust at random, might find him in the dark, Harry instantly bestrode the stair-rail, and dropped, outside the balustrade, to the floor of the hall. He grasped his half-sword in both hands, so as to put his whole weight behind it, and made a lunge in the direction of a muttered curse. The curse gave way to a roar of pain and rage, and Colden’s second follower dropped, spurting blood in the darkness, his shoulder gashed horribly by the blunt end of Peyton’s imperfect weapon. Harry now ran back to the parlor, to deal with Colden in the light, the latter’s greater length of weapon giving a greater searching-power in the darkness. In the parlor Elizabeth stood waiting in suspense. Sam was sitting on the floor and staring stupidly at Williams, who was now awake and rubbing his head, and the Tory first fallen was still senseless. Harry had no sooner taken this scene in at a glance, than Colden was upon him.
The major’s eyes seemed to stand out like blazing carbuncles from the face of some deity of rage.
“G—d d—n your soul!” he screamed, and thrust. The point went straight, and Elizabeth, seeing it protrude through the back of Harry’s coat, near the left side of his body, uttered a low cry, and sank half-fainting to her knees. Colden shouted with triumphant laughter. “Die, you dog! And when you burn in hell, remember I sent you there!”
But the evil joy suddenly faded out of Colden’s face, for Harry Peyton, smiling, took a forward step, grasped near the hilt the sword that seemed to be sheathed in his own body, forced it from Colden’s hand, and then drew it slowly from its lodgment. No blood discolored it, and none oozed from Harry’s body.
The Virginian’s quick movement to escape the thrust had left only a part of his loose-fitting coat exposed, and Colden’s sword had passed through it, leaving him unhurt. Colden’s momentary appearance of victory had been the means of actual defeat.
The Tory major saw his cup of revenge dashed from his lips, saw himself deprived of sword and sweetheart, neither chance left of living nor motive left for life. His rage collapsed; his hate burst like a bubble.