d,
holding the bridge against them, and daring them to come on; or, rather,
bidding them send Black Michael to him; and they, having no firearms,
cowered before the desperate man and dared not attack him. They
whispered to one another; and in the backmost rank, I saw my friend
Johann, leaning against the portal of the door and stanching with a
handkerchief the blood which flowed from a wound in his cheek.

By marvellous chance, I was master. The cravens would oppose me no more
than they dared attack Rupert. I had but to raise my revolver, and I
sent him to his account with his sins on his head. He did not so much as
know that I was there. I did nothing--why, I hardly know to this day.
I had killed one man stealthily that night, and another by luck rather
than skill--perhaps it was that. Again, villain as the man was, I did
not relish being one of a crowd against him--perhaps it was that. But
stronger than either of these restrained feelings came a curiosity and
a fascination which held me spellbound, watching for the outcome of the
scene.

"Michael, you dog! Michael! If you can stand, come on!" cried Rupert;
and he advanced a step, the group shrinking back a little before him.
"Michael, you bastard! Come on!"

The answer to his taunts came in the wild cry of a woman:

"He's dead! My God, he's dead!"

"Dead!" shouted Rupert. "I struck better than I knew!" and he laughed
triumphantly. Then he went on: "Down with your weapons there! I'm your
master now! Down with them, I say!"

I believe they would have obeyed, but as he spoke came new things.
First, there arose a distant sound, as of shouts and knockings from the
other side of the chateau. My heart leapt. It must be my men, come by a
happy disobedience to seek me. The noise continued, but none of the
rest seemed to heed it. Their attention was chained by what now happened
before their eyes. The group of servants parted and a woman staggered on
to the bridge. Antoinette de Mauban was in a loose white robe, her dark
hair streamed over her shoulders, her face was ghastly pale, and her
eyes gleamed wildly in the light of the torches. In her shaking hand she
held a revolver, and, as she tottered forward, she fired it at Rupert
Hentzau. The ball missed him, and struck the woodwork over my head.

"Faith, madame," laughed Rupert, "had your eyes been no more deadly
than your shooting, I had not been in this scrape--nor Black Michael in
hell--tonight!"

She took no notice