The men below had lost no time in hurrying back when they heard the sounds of the struggle. De Richleau stood calmly above the prostrate Simon; he fired four times rapidly into their midst. There was a sharp cry; at least one of his shots had found a mark. The group scattered quickly; the Duke ducked down behind the wall as the return fire spattered about them.
“Give me a hand,” muttered Rex, and Simon helped to prop his late enemy in position against the wall. The appearance of the Russian’s head and shoulders drew a further volley from the bushes below; a bullet thudded into the man’s chest.
“Get his gun, Simon.” The Duke kicked the pistol that lay at the man’s feet. Simon picked it up quickly.
“See that window?” Rex whispered, pointing to the main block. “It’s level with these leads. Think we can make it?”
“Ner,” said Simon briefly, “it’s twenty yards away.”
“This cursed snow,” the Duke agreed; “they’ll see our every movement once we leave this wall.”
“Got to take a chance,” protested Rex. “If they storm the roof both ends of the wall we’re done. Once in that room we’ll hold ’em till daylight — or, better still, maybe we’ll be able to make a break from the window round the corner, across the garden.”
“Yes, I agree, we cannot stay here.” De Richleau peered round the wall. “I can see one fellow from here; I’ll kill him in a minute.”
Rex tapped him on the arm. “Wait — I’ll creep to the other end — see if I can spot another. When you hear me fire, give your bird the works and beat it. You, too, Simon, don’t wait for the Duke; go like smoke. Good luck, both of you!”
Before they could answer he had moved off down the gutter.