Ivanta turned to Jack and Gerald, and whispered a few words at the moment of drawing his sword.
'You have your pistols! Try to close the door and hold it fast. That will give us time!'
The hint was sufficient. The two acted upon it at once, and calling to Bob Reid to follow, they made a circuit, and avoiding the rush of the defenders, got round to their rear. The first group passed without noticing them, and there was no one else inside the door. But upon the other side of it they could see another group, who were running to the support of their friends, and two of them, who were in advance, were carrying tridents.
It was doubtful which would reach the door first; but two shots rang out, and the trident-bearers dropped their weapons. They had each been wounded in the arm. Their comrades, wondering what was wrong, and, startled by the reports of the firearms--added to by a hundred echoes from the rocky vault overhead--paused in their advance, and crowded round the wounded men.
The three near the door on the inside took advantage of their halt to bang it to, and hastily shoot some bolts which they found upon it.
Then they turned to ascertain how it fared with their friends, and see what they could do to help them.
Ivanta and Fumenta had apparently been singled out for special attack, and each was defending himself against two or three adversaries. Both were fighting like heroes of old, and for a brief space the two chums paused to watch them, spellbound by the fascination of the combat.
Fumenta was fighting as such an old war-dog might be expected to fight. Grim, hard-visaged, and stalwart, his grizzled locks shaking at every turn of his head, he rained blows so quickly upon his foes that two had already fallen under them; and the others now seemed more anxious to keep at arm's length than to trust themselves near enough to strike.
Ivanta, on his side, was fighting not less valiantly, but in somewhat different fashion. As Gerald subsequently expressed it, he fought 'like the king that he was.' In his flashing glance there was nothing of the cold gleam of hatred, bred of long experience as a hunted outcast, which showed in the eyes of the outlaw chief. Rather was there dignified disdain, and even something of pity for those with whom circumstances forced him into conflict. In his whole appearance there was that which reminded the spectators of a lion defending himself in contemptuous fashion against the attacks of a number of curs; while Fumenta might be likened rather to an old wolf driven to bay.