“Landlord, a dozen Louis d’or if you give me your help against these robbers.”
“It is done, monsieur,” answered the landlord promptly.
“Keep them at sword’s length,” said Captain Jones, in a low voice.
The next instant four swords and a few stout clubs were raining cuts, thrusts and blows upon them. At the first onset Ethan spitted Blake through the fleshy part of the neck; the man writhed for a moment, then fell back out of reach howling and endeavoring to stanch the flow of blood. Two of the inn people were badly slashed by Captain Jones, and now he was engaging the Lascar, who was armed with a murderous looking knife, Wheelock and the landlord. Danvers and the rest of the inn people had fixed their attention upon Ethan, and the boy was playing them desperately.
The spy was a finished swordsman and had a wrist like steel; his thrusts were rapid and his defense superb. The smashing blows of the clubs took most of the young American’s attention, and each lunge of Danvers became more dangerous.
It was very soon evident that the situation was impossible; nine against two were hopeless odds, and the captain of the Ranger and his young friend were gradually driven back before the weapons of their adversaries. Their backs were against the wall; desperation was written deep upon their faces, and every ray of hope had gone from their hearts, when the outer door was flung open with a resounding crash, feet were heard bounding across the floor of the other room, and in another instant Longsword had flung himself into the fray with a wild Irish yell!
Like a wheel of flame his huge blade swept about him; the Lascar and one of the stable louts went down like ninepins; Danvers reeled out of the fight with a thrust through the shoulder. And with that the others threw down their weapons and fled.
Breathless, Captain John Paul Jones and Ethan Carlyle leaned upon their swords; Longsword with his point in one hand and hilt in the other glared grimly about him. Danvers, his hand pressed to his bleeding shoulder and his face paler then ever, spoke first.
“I suppose,” said he, in a cold, even voice, “that we are your prisoners.”
“If this were the United States, or the deck of my ship, you would be, assuredly,” answered Captain Jones. “As it is, the worst that I could do would be to bring a charge of assault against you before a French magistrate. So, rather than that, I shall let you go free. I give you and your people five minutes in which to take yourselves off.”