“We do not want your money.  You have a letter which we can coin.”

Wogan smiled.

“There, sir, you are wrong.”

The polite man waved the statement aside.  “A letter from Prince Sobieski,” said he.

“I had such a letter a minute ago, but I lit my pipe with it under your nose.”

The polite man stepped back; his four companions started to their feet.

The servant from Ohlau cried out with an oath, “It’s a lie.”

Wogan shrugged his shoulders and crossed his legs.

“Here’s a fine world,” said he.  “A damned rag of a lackey gives a gentleman the lie.”

“You will give me the letter,” said the polite man, coming round the table.  He held his right hand behind his back.

“You can sweep up the ashes from the hearth,” said Wogan, who made no movement of any kind.  The polite man came close to his side; Wogan let him come.  The polite man stretched out his left hand towards Wogan’s pocket.  Wogan knocked the hand away, and the man’s right arm swung upwards from behind his back with a gleaming pistol in the hand.  Wogan was prepared for him; he had crossed his legs to be prepared, and as the arm came round he kicked upwards from the knee.  The toe of his heavy boot caught the man upon the point of the elbow.  His arm was flung up; the pistol exploded and then dropped onto the floor.  That assailant was for the time out of action, but at the same moment the lackey came running across the floor, his shoulders thrust forward, a knife in his hand.

Wogan had just time to notice that the lackey’s coat was open at his breast.  He stood up, leaned over the table, caught the lapels one in each hand as the fellow rushed at him, and lifting the coat up off his shoulders violently jammed it backwards down his arms as though he would strip him of it.  The lackey stood with his arms pinioned at his elbows for a second.  During that second Wogan drew his hunting knife from his belt and drove it with a terrible strength into the man’s chest.

“There’s a New Year’s gift for your mistress, the Countess of Berg,” cried Wogan; and the lackey swung round with the force of the blow and then hopped twice in a horrible fashion with his feet together across the room as though returning to his place, and fell upon the floor, where he lay twisting.

The polite man was nursing his elbow in a corner; there were three others left,—­the man with the cheery voice, who had no weapon but a knobbed stick, and the companions on the settle.  These two had swords and had drawn them.  They leaped over the lackey’s body and rushed at Wogan one a little in advance of the other.  Wogan tilted the heavy table and flung it over to make a barricade in front of him.  It fell with a crash, and the lower rim struck upon the instep of the leader and pinned his foot.  His companion drew back; he himself uttered a cry and wrenched at his foot.  Wogan with his left hand drew his sword from the scabbard,