As Alan pitched forward, one of his outing arms struck against an
obstacle. It was a human figure, and from the feel of the leather
straps, which his fingers touched in the impact, he knew it was the
gaoler and not Lamont.
Old football tactics coming to memory, Alan clung to the man his arm
had chanced upon, and bore him along to the ground; Jack, who had
pressed forward in the darkness, being carried down as well by the
other's fall.
Gaoler, Prince and Englishman thus struggled on the stone floor in one
indistinguishable heap. It was no ordinary combat of two to one, for
neither of the prisoners could say which was the gaoler and which his
friend. The gaoler, troubled by no such doubts, laid about him
lustily, and was only prevented from crying out by the fact that his
heavy fur cap had, in the fall, become jammed down over his face as
far as the chin and could not for the moment be dislodged.
He reached for and drew the sword-bayonet that hung at his side (for
his second pistol had become lost in the scrimmage), and thrust
blindly about him. Once, twice his blade met resistance and struck
into flesh.
"Jack," panted Alan, "the beast's stabbing. Get yourself loose and
find the electric light."
As he spoke, Alan's hand found the gaoler's throat. He knew it was not
Alan's from the rough beard that covered it. The gaoler, maddened by
the pressure, stabbed with fresh fury; most of his blows, fortunately,
going wild in the darkness.
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