“Quick, Alan!” gasped Jack. “He’s got away from me. He’ll--”
Drummond, guided by his friend’s voice, darted forward through the darkness, caught his foot against the sprawling body of the lantern-bearer and fell heavily, his arms thrown out in an instinctive gesture of self-preservation. Even as he lost his balance he heard a sharp click, directly in front of him. The gaoler had pulled the trigger, and his pistol--contract-made and out of order, like many of the weapons of common soldiers in Russia’s frontier posts--had missed fire.
To that luckiest of mishaps, the failure of a defective cartridge to explode, the friends owed their momentary safety.
As Alan pitched forward, one of his outing arms struck against an obstacle. It was a human figure, and from the feel of the leather straps, which his fingers touched in the impact, he knew it was the gaoler and not Lamont.
Old football tactics coming to memory, Alan clung to the man his arm had chanced upon, and bore him along to the ground; Jack, who had pressed forward in the darkness, being carried down as well by the other’s fall.
Gaoler, Prince and Englishman thus struggled on the stone floor in one indistinguishable heap. It was no ordinary combat of two to one, for neither of the prisoners could say which was the gaoler and which his friend. The gaoler, troubled by no such doubts, laid about him lustily, and was only prevented from crying out by the fact that his heavy fur cap had, in the fall, become jammed down over his face as far as the chin and could not for the moment be dislodged.
He reached for and drew the sword-bayonet that hung at his side (for his second pistol had become lost in the scrimmage), and thrust blindly about him. Once, twice his blade met resistance and struck into flesh.
“Jack,” panted Alan, “the beast’s stabbing. Get yourself loose and find the electric light.”
As he spoke, Alan’s hand found the gaoler’s throat. He knew it was not Alan’s from the rough beard that covered it. The gaoler, maddened by the pressure, stabbed with fresh fury; most of his blows, fortunately, going wild in the darkness.
Alan’s free hand reached for and located the arm that was wielding the bayonet, and for a moment the two wrestled desperately for its possession.