before the man who had
been the first to fall could regain his pike, or a third man who was
present, but who was wounded, could drag himself, swearing horribly, to
the spot, Marcadel fired from the stairs, and killed the wounded man.
The next instant with a yell of "Geneva!" he sprang on the others under
cover of the smoke that filled the room.

The combat was still but of two to two; and without the guard-room but
almost within arm's length, were a dozen Savoyards, headed by Picot the
engineer; any one of whom might, by entering, turn the scale. But the
pistol-shot had come to the ears of the attacking party: that instant,
guessing that they had allies within, they rallied and with loud cries
returned to the attack. Even while Marcadel having disposed of one more,
stood over the struggling pair on the floor, doubting where to strike,
the burghers burst a second time into the gateway--on which the
guard-room opened--struck down Picot, and, hacking and hewing, with
cries of "Porte Gagnee! Porte Gagnee!" bore the Savoyards back.

For the half of a minute the low-groined archway was a whirl of arms and
steel and flame. Half a dozen single combats were in progress at once;
amid yells and groans, and the jar and clash of a score of weapons. But
the burghers, fighting bareheaded for their wives and hearths, were not
to be denied; by-and-by the Savoyards gave back, broke, and saved
themselves. One fierce group cut its way out and fled into the darkness
of the Corraterie. Of the others four men remained on the ground, while
two turned and tried to retreat into the guard-room.

But on the threshold they met Claude, vicious and wounded, his eyes in a
flame; and he struck and killed the foremost. The other fell under the
blows of the pursuing burghers, and across the two bodies Claude and
Marcadel met their allies, the leaders of the assault. Strange to say,
the foremost and the midmost of these was a bandy-legged tailor, with a
great two-handed sword, red to the hilt; to such a place can valour on
such a night raise a man. On his right stood Blandano, Captain of the
Guard, bareheaded and black with powder; on his left Baudichon the
councillor, panting, breathless, his fat face running with sweat and
blood--for he bore an ugly wound--but with unquenchable courage in his
eyes. A man may be fat and yet a lion.

It was a moment in the lives of the five men who thus met which none of
them ever forgot. "Was it one of you two who lo