Her voice had loosed the chains which bound me, and I sprang after her, drew her back with one hand, and while the man stood for an instant agape at this intrusion, ran him through the breast. As he felt my sword in his flesh he raised his hand and threw the iron full at me, but I stepped aside and avoided it, and he fell in a heap on the hearth. The others were upon me almost before I could turn, and with the suddenness of their rush drove me into a corner, where, in truth, I was very glad to go and get my back snugly against the wall. The moment I felt their blades against my own I knew I had swordsmen to deal with. For a breath I held them off, then I saw them exchange a glance, and as one knocked up my blade, the other ran me through the shoulder. It had been my heart, but that I sprang to the right. In the instant that followed I saw my chance and thrust full at my opponent, who had left his breast uncovered, but my point rang against a net of steel and the blade shivered in my grasp. “Well thrust,” he said, laughing harshly. “’Tis a pity so pretty a swordsman must die so young. Come, Gaspard, let us finish,” and he advanced to thrust again. I had my poniard out, but knew it would be of little service. And then, as I steeled myself for this last attack, commending my soul to the Virgin, I saw a white arc of sputtering iron sweep through the air and hiss deep into the cheek of the man in armor. He fell back with a terrible cry, and, dropping his sword, clapped his hands to his face. The other stood for an instant dazed, then, with an oath, caught up his companion and plunged into the darkness of the hall without. I heard his footsteps echoing along it for a moment, then all was still. Only the girl stood there with the bar of iron still in her hand. “I thank you, Mademoiselle,” I said. “In another moment I had been beyond assistance.” She smiled at me faintly, tremulously, and cast the iron down upon the hearth. Plainly, she was not used to scenes of violence, and had small relish for them. “Come,” I continued, “let us release the prisoner,” and with my poniard I cut the ropes which bound him. He arose from the chair unsteadily, stretched his limbs, and looked at me with a good-humored light in his eyes. “In faith, Monsieur,” he said, “you arrived most opportunely. I admit I have no appetite for white-hot iron. I am a man of the pen, not of the sword. Accept my thanks,” and he bowed with a certain dignity. I bowed in return, not to be outdone in courtesy; then, of a sudden I felt my strength drop from me, and sat down limply on the chair from which I had just released him. “Oh, you are wounded!” cried the girl. “See, uncle, here in his shoulder,” and before I could prevent it she had sunk to her knees beside me and was tearing away my doublet. In a trice my shoulder was bare, and she examined the wound with compressed lips, touching it with intelligent fingers that bespoke her convent training.