Alan's first blow had missed clean; but his second did not. Following
up his right-hand blow with all a trained boxer's swift dexterity, he
sent a straight left hander flush on the angle of the light-bearer's
jaw. The man dropped his lantern and collapsed into a senseless heap
on the floor, while Alan, with no further delay, rushed toward the
gaoler.
The fall of the lantern extinguished the light. The cell was again
plunged in dense blackness, through which could be heard the panting
and scuffing of the Prince and the gaoler.
Barely a second of time had elapsed since first Jack had seized the
man, but that second had sufficed for the latter to summon his great
brute strength and shake off his less gigantic opponent and to draw
his pistol.
"Quick, Alan!" gasped Jack. "He's got away from me. He'll--"
Drummond, guided by his friend's voice, darted forward through the
darkness, caught his foot against the sprawling body of the
lantern-bearer and fell heavily, his arms thrown out in an instinctive
gesture of self-preservation. Even as he lost his balance he heard a
sharp click, directly in front of him. The gaoler had pulled the
trigger, and his pistol-- contract-made and out of order, like many of
the weapons of common soldiers in Russia's frontier posts-- had missed
fire.
To that luckiest of mishaps, the failure of a defective cartridge to
explode, the friends owed their momentary safety.
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