The way to their lodgings was narrow and dark; the hour was still fairly early, but there were very few people abroad. As they proceeded along at a smart pace they caught a short, sharp whistle from directly ahead; and immediately it was repeated from behind. Longsword grasped the lad’s arm tightly. “It sounded very much like a signal of some sort,” said Ethan coolly. He cast a long look into the darkness as he spoke; a shadow seemed to move silently away and melt into the murk; the soft patter of guarded footsteps fell upon their ears, and then all was still. “We are being followed,” breathed Longsword, his strong hand upon the hilt of his hanger. “And it’s all because of that rascal Fochard, I’ll be bound.” “Perhaps,” said Ethan soberly. Once more they started on their way; all was soundless save for the ring of their own footsteps upon the flags; but suddenly they turned a sharp corner, and caught sight of another skulking shadow flitting before them in the gloom; and as they paused, the patter of muffled feet fell softly behind them. “We are in for it,” said Ethan Carlyle, as he quietly plucked his cutlass from its scabbard. “I wonder how many there are of them.” “Let them come from the front and it makes no differ,” said Longsword, blade in hand. “Faith, Master Ethan, it’s meself that loves a bit of a fight now and then, but I like a little daylight along wid it by choice.” Ethan drew the dragoon into an open archway, and here they awaited developments. A number of dark figures stole through the shadows and gathered directly opposite. “There they are, beneath the arch,” Ethan heard a voice say in French. “Now then, men, upon them in a body. I must have that ring.” The voice was that of the Lascar; Ethan recognized its thin tones at once. As the man spoke there came the clear bold ring of advancing footsteps upon the frosty ground. “There is some one coming,” said a second voice. “Make haste!” cried the Lascar, “or we will be too late!” A quick rush of feet followed this. “Strike hard!” breathed Longsword through his set teeth. His cutlass swung through the air with a “swish” and the foremost man fell back with a howl of agony. Ethan’s blade hissed downward in a favorite stroke and another of the party was out of the fight with a slash across the shoulder. But the remainder closed in. They were armed with swords, knives and heavy bludgeons; but the deftly played cutlasses of the two master swordsmen seemed to threaten all at once, and though the ruffians struck madly and often, the sharp points were ever in their faces, and the keen edges slashed and bit at them with fury. A pistol shot rang out sharply. Ethan felt a sudden scorching line run across his forehead; then a gush of blood almost blinded him. “I’m hit,” he said to Longsword, as he strove to dash the blood from his eyes.