Freed from the bandage, and drinking in again reviving breaths, Karyl awoke to the sense of his surroundings.  His eyes at once swept the place for Cara, but he saw only the closed door of the room where she was detained.

Martin looked down and as their eyes met he casually nodded.

“Sorry to inconvenience you,” he commented affably, “but this is politics, you know.  I happen to work for the other chap, King Louis.”  As an afterthought he added:  “And the other chap thinks that you are, to put it quite civilly, unnecessary.”

He smoked meditatively, while Karyl, without reply, scowled up into his face.  The sense of futility left Pagratide silent.  He lay insanely furious like a trapped wolf, able only to glare.

Suddenly the complacency deserted the Englishman’s features, for a startled expression.  With a violent malediction he bent forward listening.

Karyl’s ears also caught the sound of feet on the stairs, immediately followed by a crash upon the door.

Martin drew a heavy revolver from a holster under his coat, and his voice ripped out orders with the sharp decision which had survived the days when he wore a British uniform.  “Here, you beggars,” he shouted, “to that door!”

As the Bedouins swarmed forward there came a second crash under which the panels fell in, precipitating Von Ritz and Benton into a fierce swarm of human hornets.

Falling desperately upon the newcomers with swords, knives and naboots, the bravos afforded them no time to take breath after their climb of the stairs.

Martin, standing with his pipe clamped between his teeth, took no part in the onslaught.  He cast a glance at the turmoil, then deliberately cocked his weapon and leveled it at the breast of his captive.

Karyl realized that the Jackal was not to be led away from his single purpose:  that of execution.  If he himself were to speak to his rescuers, he must do it quickly.  He raised his voice.

“Von Ritz!  To that door!” he shouted loudly, but the Galavian and his companion, fighting desperately to hold their own, with the shouts and clamor of the struggling Moslems in their ears, did not hear, and the Englishman only smiled.

“They are quite busy, you know,” he drawled in a half-apologetic tone.  “Give them a bit of time.”

Von Ritz was fighting with the blade of his sword-cane, while Benton, too closely pressed to make use of his pistol, was relying upon his fists.  Indeed, the two white men owed their lives to the crowding which made effective fighting impossible on either side.

At last the Turks gave back a few steps for a fresh rush and Benton, taking instant advantage of the widened space, fired into the crowd.  They turned in terror at the first report and went stampeding to the several doors.  Then for the first time the rescuers caught sight of the Englishman standing guard over the bound figure on the floor.