Closer still.
The man's fate hung like the sword of Damocles, as by a single hair.
Roderic timed his leap with such precision that he struck the sentry totally unawares.
A dark figure launched forward like a gigantic bat—the man only had time to give a gurgle of surprise when a firm hand closed on his throat, and the sound died there.
Such was the impetus of Roderic's advance that the two of them went to the stone floor.
Immediately the American felt his antagonist cease to struggle, and he knew the other must have been knocked senseless through the blow on the head received when he came in contact with the flagging.
The percussion had sounded loud enough at least, to account for his having lost all interest in affairs mundane.
Roderic hoped he was not killed, nor did he have any reason to believe such a fate had overtaken the wretched guard.
At least everything seemed to be working beautifully in his favor, and he certainly could find no cause for complaint.
What was to be done with this pretty thing, now that he had secured the prize?