“We are in luck,” De Richleau murmured. In the dark, Simon could sense from his tone that he was smiling. It came to him suddenly that the Duke was actually enjoying this nightmare. Once free, and with a weapon in his hands, it seemed that he had none of Simon’s desire to slip away, to run, to be safe again; to do anything, short of deserting his friends, in order to get out of range of these smashing, tearing bullets, that made men gulp, or scream with pain.
“See,” the Duke went on, “this window will serve us admirably; from here we can survey the front. I shall fire one shot into those bushes there. You take the right-hand flash as they reply; aim for it and fire three rounds, then duck. I shall fire as I choose, but the right-hand flash is yours; you understand? And no more than three shots. Are you ready?”
“Um,” said Simon, nodding in the dark. “Go ahead.”
De Richleau fired; a burst of shooting answered him at once; eight men at least must have been lurking in the shadows below. One was almost directly beneath the window, less than ten feet away. Simon let fly at him, leaning out to do so. There was a scream of pain at his second shot — then the Duke wrenched him back by the neck, so that his third shot went into the air.
“Are you mad,” De Richleau shouted, “to lean out so?”
“Sorry,” said Simon humbly; “I got him, though!”
“You did,” said the Duke dryly; “it is only by the providence of Heaven that he did not get you! Have you never been in a fight before?”
“Ner,” said Simon nervously. “Ner — never.”
A sudden thud sounded in the room above, accompanied by a fresh burst of firing from the garden. “Rex,” said De Richleau quickly; “let us go up.”
The stairs creaked and groaned as they reascended; the Duke paused on the upper landing.