Anyhow, as she
lent forward, forgetting her own danger, a bullet meant for the old man
found its billet in her throat. For a moment Ringan stood aghast, then
knelt by the dying girl, striving in vain to staunch the blood that
gushed from her wound. And as he realised that such a hurt was far
beyond his simple skill, the lust to kill was born again in the old
man's breast. He forgot that he was old, forgot how the treacherous
years had stolen from him the vigour and spring that had been his,
forgot everything but the half-crazy desire for vengeance.
With the roar of a wounded tiger he tore down the barricades fixed by
himself not an hour before, snatched from its place over the fire the
trusty old broad-sword that had served him so well in former days, flung
wide the door, and charged blindly out on his enemies. Alas for Ringan
Oliver! Even as he crossed the threshold, a rope, or some part of his
discarded barricade, caught his foot, and like the Philistines' mighty
god Dagon lang syne before the Ark of the Lord, he fell prone on his
face, and the enemy was on him in an instant.
Even then, disarmed and smothered by numbers as he was, the struggle for
a time was by no means unequal, and more than once, with gigantic
effort, he had all but flung off his captors.
Pages:
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222