Peter checked himself, but craned his head forward.
"By heaven!" he said in a low voice, "I believe that is you, Boris!"
"Never mind who I may be, but keep your tongue still. Unless you wish it to be forever quieted, refrain from mentioning names in my presence.
"Now turn about, if you please, and get back near the wall."
Mademoiselle's brother was a strong, courageous man. But what may one do against such odds? He looked straight and steadily at the veiled eyes of the intruder, and declined to turn about. So for a brief instant they stood.
The bluster of the storm had effectually drowned any noise of the disturbance except for those who had heard Peter's cry for help. Among them was Baxter. At a glance, he had taken in the position of affairs.
Nor did he hesitate for a moment. Breaking into a run, he dashed across the hall toward a wall where hung a heavy sword, an heirloom that had not been used for a hundred years. Before he could be stopped he tore it from its fastenings and started toward the nearest of the ruffians, who brought him to a standstill with a revolver.
The leader noted his progress, and turned about and cried, "Keep that man away. If he moves another foot—shoot!"
Baxter threw one contemptuous glance at Boris (for it was he) and came on. The man hesitated to fire.
"Fire! you fool," shouted Boris, but the man still held his hand and hesitated so long that Baxter had gripped the barrel of his revolver in his left hand before the fellow quite realized what was happening.