Part 17 (1/2)

”Look! He reaches for his knife!” whooped the baron. ”He would protect his sweetheart!”

The guardsmen behind him joined in his roar of laughter.

Something came over Mark Carter in that moment. Something at once cold and deadly, and hotly, fiercely pa.s.sionate. He felt a kins.h.i.+p to all earth's fighting madmen--the Malay, run amok; the Viking, gone berserk; the Arab, charging through h.e.l.l to paradise.

Like a human projectile he launched himself, straight for the throat of Baron Morriere!

”Ai!”

It was not a word, that sound that came from the n.o.ble's throat. No.

There was something more primitive than that about it.

It was terror, incarnate.

Before the man could move, Mark's fingers were clutching at him, tearing his clothing and his flesh. Again he screamed.

As one possessed, Mark jerked him from the bosom of his guardsmen.

Hurled him bodily across the room, to slam against the farthest wall with a crash that echoed through the ancient wing.

But now the guardmen's paralysis was broken. They surged forward as one man.

”Jacques! Look out!”

Elaine's scream lent strength to her lover's arms. He slammed the door in the face of the oncoming fighters. Half a dozen swords stabbed deep into its wood, so closely were they upon him. He hurled himself at the portal. Forced it shut by sheer desperation. Slammed home its triple bolts.

He turned, then, his breath coming in great, sobbing gasps.

Baron Morriere had lurched to his feet. His right hand gripped a sword, his left a dagger.

”You'll die yet, you dog!” he snarled. ”I'll spit you on my sword like a pig above a bed of coals!”

The flames of the pit showed in Mark's eyes.

”And I'll see _you_ in h.e.l.l,” he grated.

With a curse of contempt, the baron charged.

Mark sprang aside.

Again the other rushed to the attack.

Once more Mark dodged. But now desperation gleamed in his eyes. He was unarmed, helpless. One slip, one misstep, and that cruel blade would pin him to the wall!

Another rush. Another escape. But this time the blade had come close.

Mark's s.h.i.+rt was ripped; his shoulder bleeding from a long scratch.

Even worse: from the end of the room came the sound of splintering wood as the guardsmen smashed in the panels of the door. A moment more and they would be upon him!