At first I was for making one big dash for it; cutting my way right through the knaves, that is, and so escaping: but a moment's thought convinced me that 'twere madness to attempt it, for who could safely hope to turn aside three ready swords at once? One would be sure to find a place inside my body. No, there was nothing for it save to wait and play the ugly game out to a finish--whether life or death. And even as I told myself this was so, up came number four.
What with the struggle he had had to free himself, and then the run, his breath was wellnigh sped, and so he stood there, pumping out his very heart, the while he pointed at me with his sword.
"Well, and what now?" enquired the leader sternly. "Why gape you thus? Know you this fellow?"
"Know him!" gasped the bond-breaker. "Know him! Aye, verily!"
"Who is he, then?"
"One--Michael--Fane ... Spy ... malcontent ... murderer! I, Dick Harland, tell you so."
"Ah! whom hath he murdered?"
"My goodly comrade Adam Blunt. He lies up yonder stricken through the heart by this same fellow's sword."
"Is this thing true?" enquired the leader, turning to me.
"'Tis true enough that I have killed the rascal," I replied; "but 'twas a fair straight fight--not murder."