As Harpax spoke between his teeth, and rather to himself than any of his companions, the Mitylenian emerged from under the archway, treading on tiptoe, yet swiftly, with an admirable mixture of silence and celerity. His poniard, drawn as he descended, gleamed in his hand, which was held a little behind the rest of his person, so as to conceal it. The assassin hovered less than an instant over the sleeper, as if to mark the interval between the ill-fated silver corslet, and the body which it was designed to protect, when, at the instant the blow was rushing to its descent, the Varangian started up at once, arrested the armed hand of the assassin, by striking it upwards with the head of his battle-axe; and while he thus parried the intended stab, struck the Greek a blow heavier than Sebastes had ever learned at the Pancration, which left him scarce the power to cry help to his comrades on the battlements. They saw what had happened, however, and beheld the barbarian set his foot on their companion, and brandish high his formidable weapon, the whistling sound of which made the old arch ring ominously, while he paused an instant, with his weapon upheaved, ere he gave the finishing blow to his enemy. The warders made a bustle, as if some of them would descend to the assistance of Sebastes, without, however, appearing very eager to do so, when Harpax, in a rapid whisper, commanded them to stand fast. "Each man to his place," he said, "happen what may. Yonder comes a captain of the guard--the secret is our own, if the savage has killed the Mitylenian, as I well trust, for he stirs neither hand nor foot. But if he lives, my comrades, make hard your faces as flints--he is but one man, we are twelve. We know nothing of his purpose, save that he went to see wherefore the barbarian slept so near the post." While the centurion thus bruited his purpose in busy insinuation to the companions of his watch, the stately figure of a tall soldier, richly armed, and presenting a lofty crest, which glistened as he stept from the open moonlight into the shade of the vault, became visible beneath. A whisper passed among the warders on the top of the gate. "Draw bolt, shut gate, come of the Mitylenian what will," said the centurion; "we are lost men if we own him.--Here comes the chief of the Varangian axes, the Follower himself." "Well, Hereward," said the officer who came last upon the scene, in a sort of _lingua Franca_, generally used by the barbarians of the guard, "hast thou caught a night-hawk?" "Ay, by Saint George!" answered the soldier; "and yet, in my country, we would call him but a kite." "What is he?" said the leader. "He will tell you that himself," replied the Varangian, "when I take my grasp from his windpipe." "Let him go, then," said the officer.