Instantly all was confusion among the shops. Men, women, and children scuttled like hares. By the time the man had turned around, the square was utterly deserted except for a shopkeeper on the other side, who was hastily putting up his shutters, and for a little boy who was pounding desperately on a massive, carved black door, begging those behind it to let him in. I had just seen the door close quietly on the keeper of one of the bazaars and two women. The man had not noticed Peter and me sitting behind our screen in the darkness.
The man leaped across the square, and settled the shopkeeper who had been putting up the shutters. He was relieved of that duty forever. The little boy was still pounding on the door, and the man turned toward him. The boy began to scream.
“Here!” Peter growled. “This won’t do.” He got up hastily, upsetting the stand, with cups and glasses. They made a great crashing and ringing. Peter snatched away the screen. “Hey you! Ahoy!” he yelled. “ ’Vast there!”
The man’s head had turned at the crash. He abandoned his pursuit of the little boy, and with a smile of frightfulness he launched himself at Peter. Peter had reached in his belt for his knife, but it was no match at all for the knife coming for him. I knew it, and I freed myself and sprang out. I should have done so before, but my mind seemed paralyzed, and I incapable of movement. It was like a dream in its effect, and in its quickness. The whole thing had not taken half a minute; hardly a quarter.
The man was almost upon Peter—I had not reached him—when there was a hiss at my ear, a flash in the sun, a streak of light shot past me, and for an instant I saw the handle of a knife quivering at his throat. It was just above the breast bone—a fair bulls-eye—and the blade was buried. To this day I remember exactly how it looked, quivering rapidly for an instant with the force of the blow; an ivory handle, stained and polished with much grasping, one point of its curved surface reflecting the sunlight in a fierce flicker, which hurt my eyes. Then the man made a lunge at Peter, missed, and fell sprawling.
Peter and I stood still, staring at him. He squirmed a little.
“It was well thrown,” said Peter thoughtfully; “a’most too well.”
“Did for him,” said a voice right behind us. “May as well take my knife.”
The owner of the voice stepped forward, bent, and coolly drew the knife from the throat. It was followed by a gush of blood. He moved his foot quickly, so that it should not be stained by the blood; then wiped the blade deliberately and carefully on the gaudy sash around the body on the ground. Then he stood straight again, slipping the knife into its sheath on his hip.
“Better fade away, mates,” he said. “Follow me. I know the town.”