“Come on, you bloomin’ cowards!” yelled Wright, the joy of battle carrying him away. “We ain’t afraid of yer! Eight men don’t dare fight three. Yah!”
The long-drawn contempt infused into the last monosyllable appeared to stimulate the courage of the attacking party, and they made a rush up the steps and threw themselves upon the defenders, who were much embarrassed by the extent of their position, for the staircase was a very wide one. Cyril singled out General Sertchaieff as his opponent, and if any one had found time to watch them, a very pretty display of swordsmanship might have been seen. Louis O’Malachy had not mounted the stairs with the rest of his party, but had disappeared, apparently to summon further assistance, and the soldiers left their leader to account for Cyril, and devoted their attention to Caerleon. He found himself hard put to it to maintain his position against them, although Wright, using as a buckler a chair which he had caught up on the landing, rendered him yeoman service by dealing fierce and disabling blows with his belt on the heads and wrists of the opposing swordsmen. All too soon Caerleon’s untrustworthy blade broke off in his hand, and he was left to repel his assailants with the remaining half, but their shout of triumph distracted the attention of General Sertchaieff, who glanced aside for a moment, and in that moment Cyril ran him through the arm and obliged him to drop his sword. Wright whisked up the sword immediately, and thrust it into Caerleon’s hand before any of the enemy could prevent him, and the fight was now of a more equal character, since General Sertchaieff was forced to retire disabled. He retreated no further than the half-way landing, however, and taking out his revolver, began to fire and load again as fast as he could with his left hand.
“If he’s going to pot at us one by one, we’re done for!” gasped Cyril.
“If he shoots no better than this, we’re all right,” returned Caerleon, breathlessly, and the fight went on in silence until a sudden exclamation of rage from Cyril showed the King his brother’s sword shivered at his feet. At the same moment a heavy blow from behind threw him forward among the enemy, and a howl of fury from Wright proclaimed that an attack in the rear had proved successful. When Caerleon recovered his scattered senses, he found himself held down by four men, while Cyril and Wright were in a like predicament. Under cover of the noise made by General Sertchaieff’s pistol practice, Louis O’Malachy had led a party round and captured the position from behind.
“I think your lordship will now see that it is expedient to submit without further resistance,” said General Sertchaieff smoothly, as he tied a handkerchief round his wounded arm. Caerleon made no answer, for he had caught Wright’s eye, and seen his free hand stealing towards the ankle of one of the men who held him, and in another instant two of the captors had gone down with a crash, and Caerleon was on his feet and hitting out furiously, while Wright made herculean but unavailing efforts to join him. But the struggle was hopeless from the first, for Caerleon could not even get his back against the wall, and he was dragged down by sheer weight of numbers, and bound firmly with the tasselled cord torn from a curtain.
“I don’t think you will get that undone,” said Louis, bending over him and testing the knots, then, with that tendency towards the theatrical which besets a certain class of Irishmen in moments of excitement, he kicked him heavily, adding, “That is for my sister.”
“Nasty coward!” growled Wright. “’It a man when ’e’s down that you don’t dare touch when ’e’s up, and bring in a young lady’s name about it, you precious blackguard, do!”
“Captain O’Malachy,” interrupted General Sertchaieff, as Louis advanced threateningly towards his unconquerable assailant, “if you will be so good as to take three men and secure the person of the Prince of Schwarzwald-Molzau, I will wait here with the prisoners for your return.”
Louis departed instantly, to return before long with a laugh.
“No fighting there. He accepts the situation with great philosophy,” he said, and Caerleon felt oddly disappointed. Something had given him the idea that he might reckon on Prince Otto Georg for support at this crisis.