That momentary relaxation was, he knew, his last chance.  He gathered his strength in a supreme effort, lurched over onto his left side, and getting his right arm free swung it with all his strength in the direction of the voice.  His clenched fist caught his opponent full under the point of the chin, and the hand at Wogan’s throat clutched once and fell away limp as an empty glove.  Wogan sat up on the floor and drew his breath.  That, after all, was more than his antagonist was doing.  The knocking at the door continued; Wogan could not answer it, he had not the strength.  His limbs were shaking, the sweat clotted his hair and dripped from his face.  But his opponent was quieter still.  At last he managed to gather his legs beneath him, to kneel up, to stand shakily upon his feet.  He could no longer mistake the position of the door; he tottered across to it, removed the chair, and opened it.

The landlord with a couple of servants stepped back as Wogan showed himself to the light of their candles.  Wogan heard their exclamations, though he did not clearly understand them, for his ears still buzzed.  He saw their startled faces, but only dimly, for he was dazzled by the light.  He came back into the room, and pointing to his assailant,—­a sturdy, broad man, who now sat up opening and shutting his eyes in a dazed way,—­“Who is that?” he asked, gasping rather than speaking the words.

“Who is that?” repeated the landlord, staring at Wogan.

“Who is that?” said Wogan, leaning against the bed-post.

“Why, sir, your servant.  Who should he be?”

Wogan was silent for a little, considering as well as his rambling wits allowed this new development.

“Ah!” said Wogan, “he came here with me?” “Yes, since he is your servant.”

The landlord was evidently mystified; he was no less evidently speaking with sincerity.  Wogan reflected that to proffer a charge against the assailant would involve his own detention in Ulm.

“To be sure,” said he, “I know.  This is my servant.  That is precisely what I mean.”  His wits were at work to find a way out of his difficulty.  “This is my servant?  What then?” he asked fiercely.

“But I don’t understand,” said the landlord.

“You don’t understand!” cried Wogan.  “Was there ever such a landlord?  He does not understand.  This is my servant, I tell you.”

“Yes, sir, but—­but—­”

“Well?”

“We were roused—­there was a noise—­a noise of men fighting.”

“There would have been no noise,” said Wogan, triumphantly, “if you had prepared a bed for my servant.  He would not have crept into my cupboard to sleep off his drunkenness.”

“But, sir, there was a bed.”

“You should have seen that he was carried to it.  As it is, here have I been driven to beat him and to lose my night’s rest in consequence.  It is not fitting.  I do not think that your inn is well managed.”