The young girl shrieked again, the woman gave a gasp of horror,
Duchemin himself knew a sickish qualm. But he had no time to spare for
that: it was going ill with the man contending against two. The
adventurer's stick might have been bewitched that night, so magical was
its work; a single blow on the nearest head (but believe it was
selected with care!) and instantaneously that knot of contention was
resolved into its three several parts.
The smitten clapped hands to his hurt, moaning. His brother scoundrel
started back with staring eyes in which rage gave place to dismay as he
grasped the change in the situation and saw the stick swinging for his
head in turn. He ducked neatly; the stick whistled through thin air;
and before Duchemin could recover the other had turned and was running
for dear life.
Duchemin delayed a bare instant; but manifestly his assistance was no
more needed here. In a breath he who had been so recently outmatched
recollected his wits and took the initiative with admirable address.
Duchemin saw him fly furiously at his late opponent, trip and lay him
on his back; then turned and gave chase to the fugitive.
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