But she changed her tactics almost before Will was out of sight beyond a boulder, beginning to scream the same words over and over in the gipsy tongue and struggling to free her feet until I thought the thongs would either burst or strip the flesh from her.

The screams were answered by a shout from up above.  Then I heard Will shout, and some one fired a pistol.  There came a clatter of loose stones, and I got to my feet to be ready for action—­not that my hurts would have let me accomplish much.

A second later I saw three of Gregor Jhaere’s gipsies scurrying along the cliff-side, turning at intervals to fire pistols at some one in pursuit.  So I joined in the fray with my Colt repeater, and flattered myself I did not do so badly.  The first two shots produced no other effect than to bring the runaways to a halt.  The next three shots brought all three men tumbling head over heels down the cliff-side, rolling and sliding and scattering the stones.

One fell near Maga’s feet and lay there writhing.  The other two came to a standstill in a hideous heap beside me, and I stooped to see if I could recognize them.

What happened after that was almost too quick for the senses to take in.  One of the gipsies came suddenly to life and seized me by the neck.  The other grasped my feet, and as I fell I saw the third man slash loose Maga’s thongs and help her up.

My two assailants rolled me over on my back, and while one held me the other aimed blows at my head with the butt of his empty pistol.  Once he hit me, and it felt like an explosion.  Twice by a miracle I dodged the blows, growing weaker, though, and hopeless.  He aimed a fourth blow, taking his time about it and making sure of his aim, and I waited in the nearest approach to fatalistic calm I ever experienced.

In a strange abstraction, in which every movement seemed to be slowed down into unbelievable leisureliness, I saw the butt of the pistol begin to approach my eye—­near—­nearer.  Then suddenly I heard a woman scream, and a shot ring out.

Instead of the pistol butt the gipsy’s brains splashed on my face, and the man collapsed on top of me.  Next I realized that Gloria Vanderman was wiping my face with a cloth of some kind, holding a hot pistol in her other hand, while Will was standing laughing over me, and Maga Jhaere with the other gipsy had disappeared altogether.

“Did you shoot Maga?” I mumbled.

“No,” Will laughed.  “I’d hate to shoot a woman who’d offered to make me king!  She ought to be hung, though, for a horse-thief!  She and that other gipsy got away with the mounts!  Never mind—­there are four of us to carry you, if Gloria lends a hand!”

But I have no notion how they carried me.  All I remember is recovering consciousness that evening in the castle, to discover myself copiously bandaged, and painfully stiff, but not so much of an invalid after all.