“Harkye, young Sir,” cried the leader of the band, addressing Osbert. “We do not desire your life—nay, we would willingly spare you. Our sole object is to crush this spawn of hell. Retire, and leave him to our justice.”
“Think you I will stand tamely by and see you execute your ruthless purpose?” cried young Clinton. “No; I will defend the Prince to my last gasp.”
“Your blood be upon your own head, then,” rejoined the ruffian. “Upon them, comrades! Strike, and spare not.”
“Thou, at least, will never be executioner,” cried the Prince.
And as the ruffian made a desperate lunge at him, he dexterously caught his sword in the hanging part of his cloak, and returning with a full thrust, transfixed his antagonist with his rapier.
“This comes of Spanish practices,” groaned the wretch, as he fell to the ground. “Had he fought like an Englishman, without the cloak, I had killed him. Revenge me, comrades,” he added, with his last breath.
“I have done thee too much honour in killing thee, vile caitiff,” cried Philip, spurning the body with his foot.
The death of the leader caused a momentary pause in the assault. But determined to make sure of their prey, three of the ruffians now attacked the Prince, leaving the fourth engaged with Osbert. But for his activity and address it might now have fared ill with Philip. His cloak saved him from many a deadly thrust aimed at his breast, and distracted his assailants. Strange to say, he was entirely untouched, though all three of his opponents had felt the point of his weapon. He tried to separate them, but without success. They were too wary to be caught by the stratagem.
In this way, he was driven back towards the door of the hospital, before which stood Constance and old Dorcas, unable to gain admittance, and filling the court with cries for help. Presently at this juncture, and as if to afford him a means of retreat, the door of the hospital was thrown open by old Absalom, the porter, who held a lamp in his hand, and was shaking with terror. While stepping nimbly backwards in the hope of passing through the doorway, Philip encountered some obstacle, and fell, thus lying at the mercy of his opponents.
In another moment all had been over with him, if Constance had not heroically thrown herself before him, and the ruffians, having some touch of manhood in their breasts, forbore to strike. With terrible oaths, however, they ordered her to stand aside, but, with unshaken resolution, she maintained her place, and they were preparing to execute their fell purpose in spite of her, when a loud clatter in the passage leading to the street warned them that succour was at hand, and made them pause. The next moment Rodomont Bittern and his friends, shouting and flourishing their swords, and accompanied by two or three torch-bearers, rushed into the court.