But Billy Byrne was not to be dispatched so easily.  With his left forearm he struck up the hand that wielded the menacing blade, and then catching the fellow by the shoulder swung him around, grasped him about the waist and lifting him above his head hurled him full in the faces of the swordsmen who were pressing through the narrow doorway.

Almost simultaneously a spear shot through a tiny opening in the ranks before Billy Byrne, and with a little gasp of dismay the huge fellow pitched forward upon his face.  At the same instant a shot rang out behind Barbara Harding, and Theriere leaped past her to stand across the body of the fallen mucker.

With the sound of the shot a samurai sank to the floor, dead, and the others, unaccustomed to firearms, drew back in dismay.  Again Theriere fired point-blank into the crowded room, and this time two men fell, struck by the same bullet.  Once more the warriors retreated, and with an exultant yell Theriere followed up his advantage by charging menacingly upon them.  They stood for a moment, then wavered, turned and fled from the hut.

When Theriere turned back toward Barbara Harding he found her kneeling beside the mucker.

“Is he dead?” asked the Frenchman.

“No.  Can we lift him together and get him through that window?”

“It is the only way,” replied Theriere, “and we must try it.”

They seized upon the huge body and dragged it to the far end of the room, but despite their best efforts the two were not able to lift the great, inert mass of flesh and bone and muscle and pass it through the tiny opening.

“What shall we do?” cried Theriere.

“We must stay here with him,” replied Barbara Harding.  “I could never desert the man who has fought so noble a fight for me while a breath of life remained in him.”

Theriere groaned.

“Nor I,” he said; “but you—­he has given his life to save yours.  Should you render his sacrifice of no avail now?”

“I cannot go alone,” she answered simply, “and I know that you will not leave him.  There is no other way—­we must stay.”

At this juncture the mucker opened his eyes.

“Who hit me?” he murmured.  “Jes’ show me de big stiff.”  Theriere could not repress a smile.  Barbara Harding again knelt beside the man.

“No one hit you, Mr. Byrne,” she said.  “You were struck by a spear and are badly wounded.”

Billy Byrne opened his eyes a little wider, turning them until they rested on the beautiful face of the girl so close to his.

“Mr. Byrne!” he ejaculated in disgust.  “Forget it.  Wot do youse tink I am, one of dose paper-collar dudes?”

Then he sat up.  Blood was flowing from a wound in his chest, saturating his shirt, and running slowly to the earth floor.  There were two flesh wounds upon his head—­one above the right eye and the other extending entirely across the left cheek from below the eye to the lobe of the ear—­but these he had received earlier in the fracas.  From crown to heel the man was a mass of blood.  Through his crimson mask he looked at the pile of bodies in the far end of the room, and a broad grin cracked the dried blood about his mouth.