Now, Hepworth Coleman was a man of iron nerve, an athlete in body and spirit, who, although full of romantic and poetic impulses, was at the base of his character as brave and steadfast as a lion. Still, even the best courage has its moment of faltering, and just at the point when one whole wall of his cell was withdrawn, so that he stood in the full glare of twenty brilliant chandeliers that lighted a large, gorgeously decorated hall, he felt the blood grow stiflingly heavy on his heart. Before him stood a file of fantastic figures, men oddly clad and strangely armed, who clashed their brazen shields together and pointed their swords at his breast. On the walls of the spacious room hung weird-looking trophies, skulls, pictures of dead men, ghastly and livid, pistols, swords, and strange banners. The floor was carpeted with heavy Persian tapestry, thickly padded underneath. Coleman stood gazing while the file of armed men--perhaps platoon would be more correct--went through some silent but intricate evolutions after beating their shields together and threatening him with their swords. When the movements were ended one of the masters came up to him and struck him lightly with the flat of his weapon across the cheek, saying in a loud whisper: "Beware! you are in imminent danger." Coleman took him at his word and instantly let go a blow from the shoulder. His close-set fist met the masker's jaw with a sound of crushing pasteboard, and down went the man outstretched at full length on the floor, his shield and sword giving forth a muffled clang as they crossed upon the soft carpet. Quick as a cat Coleman leaped forward and picked up the sword, a beautiful rapier, and, assuming a defensive attitude, cried out boldly: "Come one at a time and I will fight you all!" The fantastic figures looked at one another with evident questioning, though not a word was said. Meantime the fallen one scrambled to his feet and swore two or three bitter French oaths. The leader rebuked him with gestures. "Come one at a time, you cowardly villains," repeated Coleman, "and I'll soon finish you all. Come on, the first one, if you dare meet a man!" He was terribly angry, but his voice was steady and even. There was a space of silence. Then the leader said something to one of the men, who immediately cast aside his shield and advanced with his rapier. It was a short conflict. Coleman disarmed his antagonist with ease in less than a minute. Another man came on and shared the same fate, with the addition of a prick through the wrist of the sword-arm. This was exhilarating to Coleman in his exasperation at being made the butt of some mysterious trick. "Come next," he cried; "I want the best of you--and the best is a coward. Come on!" Evidently the mystic band now felt the gravity that the occasion was assuming. The maskers looked to their leader. "Don't stand there afraid," sneered Coleman; "come on and get your turn. Who's next?"