owl--a veritable
high-pitched scream:

"_My Gawd, look out!_"

XVII

CONCLUSION

Rusty had dived under the table.

The great sword of the armored figure was swinging swiftly up in air,
and Jarvis leaped with all the sinewy strength of his young manhood.

It was none too soon.

The great Damascus blade struck fire from the stone balustrade where he
sat a second before.

Jarvis spun about, and his automatic barked. With the instinct of the
born fighting man he fired for the heart: this was his error.

The bullets spattered off the angle-braced breastplate.

Down the steps came the horrid figure, raising the great sword again.
The leaden shower did not halt the clanging monster, as the iron-clad
advanced.

He remembered now that Rusty had two more revolvers--but Rusty was
scuttling on hands and knees for the shelter of the turret entrance
across the room.

In desperation Jarvis threw his revolver at the head of the assailant!
It was a futile pebble toss.

The weapon clattered against the metal vizor and bounced off, as the
weird assailant ran within striking distance. For the first time in his
life came the sensation of helplessness in a fight. There was a numbing
feeling of horror as he recoiled before this thing.

His back touched the stone wall, just as the quick figure made a
forward step and struck again. The sword rang out against the rock, but
the hand that held that weapon knew how to wield it with determination.

Jarvis had dropped to his knees, and imitated Rusty's escape, until he
was out of reach. He might have grappled--but the thought came too
late. He saw the ancient weapons on the wall--there was a great poleax.

This was the instrument made for the man-at-arms to withstand the noble
knight in the days of old. He whirled it on high as the other came
toward him. The double-edged sword rose high to parry the stroke, and
the sharp weapon clove through the rotten wood helve: Time had disarmed
the American again.

A deep-chested laugh came from the human "battleship."

Warren laughed back--in the face of death: the old Jarvis fighting
laugh was a tradition in Kentucky.

His next weapon was a chair. With this as a guard he managed to swing
the sword with a clever parry. He gave the metal breastplate a vigorous
high kick. From the helmet there came a muffled "Oooof!" Here was one
"point" for the modern!

[Illustration: _His next weapon was a chair_]

Thus they dodged and feinte