and with the same movement passed it through his opponent’s body.  The man stood swaying, pinned there by his foot and held erect.  Then he made one desperate lunge, fell forward across the barricade, and hung there.  Wogan parried the lunge; the sword fell from the man’s hand and clattered onto the floor within the barricade.  Wogan stamped upon it with his heel and snapped the blade.  He had still two opponents; and as they advanced again he suddenly sprung onto the edge of the table, gave one sweeping cut in a circle with his sword, and darted across the room.  The two men gave ground; Wogan passed between them.  Before they could strike at his back he was facing them again.  He had no longer his barricade, but on the other hand his shoulders were against the door.

The swordsman crossed blades with him, and at the first pass Wogan realised with dismay that his enemy was a swordsman in knowledge as well as in the possession of the weapon.  He had a fencer’s suppleness of wrist and balance of body; he pressed Wogan hard and without flurry.  The blade of his sword made glittering rings about Wogan’s, and the point struck at his breast like an adder.

Wogan was engaged with his equal if not with his better.  He was fighting for his life with one man, and he would have to fight for it with two, nay, with three.  For over his opponent’s shoulder he saw his first polite antagonist cross to the table and pick up from the ground the broken sword.  One small consolation Wogan had; the fellow picked it up with his left hand, his right elbow was still useless.  But even that consolation lasted him for no long time, for out of the tail of his eye he could see the big fellow creeping up with his stick raised along the wall at his right.

Wogan suddenly pressed upon his opponent, delivering thrust upon thrust, and forced him to give ground.  As the swordsman drew back, Wogan swept his weapon round and slashed at the man upon his right.  But the stroke was wide of its mark, and the big man struck at the sword with his stick, struck with all his might, so that Wogan’s arm tingled from the wrist to the shoulder.  That, however, was the least part of the damage the stick did.  It broke Wogan’s sword short off at the hilt.

Both men gave a cry of delight.  Wogan dropped the hilt.

“I have a loaded pistol, my friends; you have forgotten that,” he cried, and plucked the pistol from his belt.  At the same moment he felt behind him with his left hand for the knob of the door.  He fired at the swordsman and his pistol missed, he flung it at the man with the stick, and as he flung it he sprang to the right, threw open the door, darted into the passage, and slammed the door to.

It was the work of a second.  The men sprang at him as he opened the door; as he slammed it close a sword-point pierced the thin panel and bit like a searing iron into his shoulder.  Wogan uttered a cry; he heard an answering shout in the room, he clung to the handle, setting his foot against the wall, and was then stabbed in the back.  For his host was waiting for him in the passage.