“Right,” said Tom. “You are always right, except when you imagine you can handle a sword.” Once more his laugh rang out; and before he had done, the man sent for the firearms came racing back. “The rifles are gone,” he announced. “Gone!” they stared at him in consternation. “What do you mean, Fannin?” “Just what I say,” returned the Tory. “The rifles have been carried off.” “I have taken good care of that,” cried the lad on the staircase. “Your rifles, gentlemen, are where you will not be able to find them in a hurry. If you want to take me it must be hand to hand.” “Then hand to hand it shall be,” roared Clarage, his face purple with passion. “Shall it be said,” he cried, turning to his companions, “that one rebel boy held back and defied eight loyal subjects of the king?” His was the boldest spirit among them, and now its influence began to be felt. “No! No!” they shouted. “Then at him, like men. I only ask you to follow me.” They took tighter grips upon the hilts of their swords. There was a window at the head of the staircase and a landing just under it. A broad beam of sunlight streamed through the window and bathed the staircase and the boy upon it in a flood of golden light. As the Tories brandished their swords for the rush, Tom heard a slight sound behind him; turning his head a little he saw Lucy Foster, pale faced and with clasped hands, standing upon the landing near the window. “Don’t come any farther, if you value your safety and mine, also,” he had just time to call to her, and then the Tories were upon him. Clarage was first; he delivered a mighty cut at Tom’s head, but it was put aside and the young swamp-rider’s blade bit deeply into his right shoulder. Clarage uttered a roar of rage; his right arm was helpless, but he transferred his sword to his left and came on again. At each side of Clarage and over his shoulder the other Tories were cutting and thrusting desperately at Tom. The blows came swiftly and frequently; but his blade met them all, darting here and there like a streak of light and seeming at times to twine about their own like the coils of a metallic snake. Desperately the battle waged on their part and gallantly upon his; the girl behind him, upon the landing, more than once cried out in fear as she saw almost certain death threatening the youth from the Tories’ sword points; but each time he redoubled his exertions and swept the staircase clear of his foes. However, this could not last; he was but human, and his strength at last began to fail; two of his assailants were lying, disabled, at the foot of the stairs, and the others, to a man, bore testimony to his prowess. But, when they saw his strength waning, under the urging of Mark Harwood they pressed upon him, dealing showers of blows with their heavy sabres. “Surrender,” cried Mark Harwood. “You’ll take me, if you get me at all,” panted Tom, dealing an ugly cut at the nearest Tory.