A yell, and the rush of approaching feet, as they raced for me; I had sprung forward at the first shout and crossed swords with Dunraven. He wore his steel breastplate, or I would have cut him down in a few seconds, for he lacked much of being my match with the sword; but there was naught for me to do but to make for his head, as my time was too short to pick and choose my point of attack. Another cut at his head, which he parried, and replied by a vicious lunge at my throat, which I met--and then from out of the gloom his men sprang at me. The priest, a great cutlass in his hands, came down like a wild boar; behind him panted the fat skipper of the "Betsy," his red face aglow, and at his heels an Indian in his paint and feathers. And now four to one, on all sides of me, they cut and thrust; one man, no matter how splendid a fight he made, could not keep all of them at bay. A low cry from my lady caught my attention. She was swaying to and fro, both hands clutched at her breast--even as I glanced at her, she toppled and fell full length upon the ground. That one brief instant, when I turned my eyes from my assailants, proved my undoing. With a rush all four men were upon me. The priest caught the hilt of my sword and was endeavoring to wrench it from my hands; the others sprang upon my back and were trying to throw me to the ground. "Drop all swords!" Dunraven cried. "I would not have him hurt--he is reserved for a sweeter fate." I staggered under their combined weight; my hands were pinned to my sides, for the priest, having wrenched my sword from me with the help of the savage, now gripped my body and arms with a grasp of steel. The two, Miles as Dunraven called the fat skipper, and my lord himself, were upon my back, with the Indian tugging at my knees. With a crash I went down, carrying them with me. What had become of Winona, I thought as I fell. Had she forsaken me? She was the equal of a man in a fight such as this; but when it came to the pinch, she had doubtless fled. The priest had loosed me as I fell, and catching up a long knife, he bent over me as I struggled with the others upon the ground. The old dark leer was upon his face. "And so we square accounts!" he cried triumphantly. "I have gloated over the thought of this moment ever since we last parted. Die, thou carrion! May thy foul soul rot in Hades with my old chief, the Count DeNortier, for a million ages!" And he struck downwards at me. With a whistle an arrow whizzed towards him, and as I looked I saw its sharp point strike him in the throat, and passing through, project a foot beyond. A shrill, keen, quavering yell vibrated through the forest, as the priest staggered blindly, the knife still clutched in his hand. Then another piercing cry rang out, as a second arrow struck him full in the back, and with a hideous shriek he sprawled out upon the ground.