They came in a body—they spread from right to left in an arc of murder—they poised for the simultaneous rush—he swayed back for the cleaving spring. But at that instant, with a tremendous staggering clap of thunder, which rent the sky with fifty glittering cracks of fire, and stunned them all, the whole heaven, deep and vast and broad, and earth and air and sea, upburst in a long and lingering rosy flood of living flame. In that instant, as in a magic dream, he saw the boat far down the beach, rise with a peal of cries and a silent lift of oars, and shoot in silence to the shore—he saw the great sea sink and swell in vast and weltering lustrous shadow—he saw the seven assassins standing crouched with gleaming knives around him—he saw the deep heavens open up in rosy light to God. The next instant the darkness fell like the shutting of an eye; a surge of strength rushed like the blood of the whole race to his heart—and with a terrific bound he fell upon his foes.
Brief and awful was that battle. At the first leap he went through them like a thunderbolt, and two went down crashing senseless on the pebbles. Turning with a flying spring, he charged them as they huddled in a fierce knot of five, and dead thumped the sluff of the French kick, and the thud of the English blow. It was not more than a quarter of a minute in which he raged among their astounded junto, but in that quarter of a minute something like a sense that this was a statue of solid iron, preternaturally endowed with animate life, and flying among them with limbs of agile destruction, burst through their terrified souls. Down they went in swift succession, kicked and dashed and whirled hither and thither in crashing overthrow, and not a man rose more than to crawl, after he once fell. The last of the seven was a brawny wretch, who made a headlong rush and found no man in the place where there was one a second before, but instead two crushing hands that jarred the marrow in his bones as they fell from behind around his bull neck, and swung him off his feet to dash him howling a dozen paces distant on the rocky strand. Not more than a quarter of a minute, and at the tail of it came Bagasse with cries of fury, and the leaps of a Zouave, brandishing his cavalry sabre; and fast behind him Wentworth, springing like a panther, with a pistol in each hand; and behind him the Captain, with his loaden stave. But the field was won! Groans and curses of anguish resounding from it in all directions. One bruised assassin feebly tottering away from it through the darkness; three more weakly crawling over the stones on their hands and knees; and the other three lying half senseless where the mighty limbs of Harrington had hurled them.
Yes, the field was won, but after the battle there was going to be massacre. For the fierce Celtic blood of Bagasse was up, and standing only for an instant, he swung up his sabre and dashed with a yell upon a wretch who was essaying to rise. Harrington sprang and caught him by the wrist.
“No, Bagasse,” he cried. “Spare them. They are hurt enough already.”
Bagasse stood for an instant, panting, then turned sullenly away.
At that moment the Captain, who had stood looking in blank stupefaction on the prostrate bodies, burst into screams of eldritch merriment, brandishing his stave, and capering like mad.
Wentworth, meanwhile, was hugging the panting Harrington, almost wild with exulting joy.
“By all the gods!” he shouted, bursting away and roaring with laughter, “was there ever the like of this! Seven to one, and he flogs the life out of them! Oh, Froissart, where are you! Sieur Jehan Froissart, why did you die! Come back, you old clerk of chivalry, and write it down! Seven to one, and there they lie!” And Wentworth bent himself double in a fresh convulsion of merriment.