Clementina

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.

Wogan dropped the door-handle and turned. That last blow had thrown him

into a violent rage. Possessed by rage, he was no longer conscious of

wounds or danger; he was conscious only of superhuman strength. The

knife was already lifted to strike again. Wogan seized the wrist which

held the knife, grappled with the innkeeper, and caught him about the

body. The door of the room, now behind him, was flung violently open.

Wogan, who was wrought to a frenzy, lifted up the man he wrestled with,

and swinging round hurled him headlong through the doorway. The three

men were already on the threshold. The new missile bounded against them,

tumbled them one against the other, and knocked them sprawling and

struggling on the floor.