# Terence O'Rourke/Part 2/Chapter 2

CHAPTER II
THE INN OF THE WINGED GOD
It was drawing toward the evening of the third day following, when Colonel O'Rourke rounded an elbow in the road and came, simultaneously, into view of the Inn of the Winged God, and to a stop.
He was weary and footsore. He was, moreover, thirsty. Behind him the road stretched long, and white, and hot, and straight as any string across the Department of the Meurthe-et-Moselle, back to Longwy, whence he had come afoot.
For, in consideration of the temper of Prince Georges de Lützelburg, Chambret and O'Rourke had agreed that it would be the part of prudence for the Irishman to enter the duchy as unobtrusively as possible; and in his light tweeds, with the dust of the road white upon his shoes and like a film upon his clothes, O'Rourke might well have passed for an English milord upon a walking tour.
To the seeing eye, perhaps, there was about the Irishman a devil-may-care swing, a free carelessness in the way he put his best foot forward, a fine spirit in the twirl of his walking stick, that was hardly to be considered characteristic of that solemn person, the Englishman, plugging stolidly forward upon his walking tour as upon a penance self-imposed. But the similitude was sufficient to impose upon the peasantry of Lutzelburg; and should suffice, barring accidents.
O'Rourke paused, I say, looking forward to the inn, and then about him, considering the lay of the land. To the ​north, he knew, ran the French-Belgian frontier—how far away he might not exactly state; to the west, also, was the line that divides Lützelburg from French territory—again at an indeterminate distance, according to the Irishman's knowledge.
"But it will not be far, now, I'm thinking," he said aloud; "come sundown, 'tis meself that will be out av France—and thin, I'm advising ye, may the devil stand vigil for the soul of his familiar, Monsieur le Prince!"
But for all his boastfulness, the Irishman was by no means easy in his mind as to how he was to accomplish that to which he had set his hand. The plan of action agreed upon between O'Rourke and his friend was distinguished by a considerable latitude as to detail.
O'Rourke was, in short, to do what he could. If he succeeded in freeing the young duke, well and good. If not—and at this consideration Chambret had elevated expressive shoulders. "One does one's possible," he had deprecated; "one can do no more, mon ami."
Now, the Irishman was thinking that it behooved him to be on his way without delay, if he cared to reach the city of Lützelburg before nightfall. And yet, this inn before him was one of possibilities interesting to a thirsty man. He stood still, jingling in his pockets the scant store of francs that remained to him of the modest loan which he had consented to accept of the larger sum which Chambret had tried to press upon him.
It stood unobtrusively back from the road, this inn: a gabled building, weather-beaten and ancient-seeming, draped lavishly with green growing vines. Above the lintel of its wide, hospitably yawning doorway swung, creaking in the perfumed airs of the spring afternoon, a battered signboard, ​whereon a long-dead artist had limned the figure of a little laughing, naked boy, with a bow and a quiver full of arrows, and two downy wings sprouting somewhere near his chubby shoulder-blades.
O'Rourke grinned at the childish god, deciphering the stilted French inscription beneath its feet.
"The Inn of the Winged God," he read aloud. "Sure, 'tis meself that's the superstitious one—a rank believer in signs. I'm taking ye, ye shameless urchin," he apostrophized the god of love, "for a sign that there's—drink within!" He chuckled, thinking: 'Tis here that I'm to meet Chambret, if need be, for consultation. I mind me he said the inn was but a step this side the frontier. Be that token, 'tis himself that should be coming down the road, ere long, galumphing in that red devil-wagon av his."
But the question remained: Was he to pause for refreshment, or to push on despite his great thirst? For it seemed as though all the dust in the road that had not found lodgment upon his body had settled in his throat.
The fluttering of a woman's skirts put a period to his hesitancy; a girl appeared and stood for a moment in the doorway of the Inn of the Winged God, gazing upon the newcomer with steady eyes that were bright beneath level brows. A tall girl, seemingly the taller since slight and supple, she was, and astonishingly good to look upon: slender and darkly beautiful.
Even at a distance O'Rourke could see as much and imagine the rest; and, more, he saw that she wore the peasant dress peculiar to that Department—wore it with an entrancing grace, adorning it herself rather than relying upon it to enhance her charms. A crimson head-dress of some fashion confined her hair; and that same was dark—nay, black. And there was a kerchief about her throat, like snow ​above the black of a velvet bodice, which, together with her spreading skirt of crimson cloth, was half hidden by a bright expanse of apron. Moreover, that skirt—in keeping with the custom of the neighborhood—was sensibly short; whereby it was made evident that mademoiselle might, if so she willed, boast a foot of quality, an ankle …
Promptly O'Rourke's thirst became unbearable, and he advanced a step or two with a purposeful air.
Mademoiselle as promptly disappeared into the gloom of the inner room.
O'Rourke followed her example, finding it cool within and clean, inviting, and tempting to dalliance. There was a great, cold fireplace; and broad, spotless tables, and chairs were ranged about upon a floor of earth hard-packed and neatly sanded. Also, from a farther room came odors of cookery, enchanting first his nose and then all the hungry man that was O'Rourke.
He stalked to the center of the room, half blinded by his sudden transition from the sun glare to this comfortable gloom, and discovered the girl standing with a foot on the threshold of the adjoining apartment, watching him over her shoulder.
O'Rourke cleared his throat harshly; and "What would m'sieur?" she desired to know.
"That, me dear," said O'Rourke. With his walking stick he indicated one of the row of steins that decorated the chimneypiece. "And, mind ye, full to the brim," he stipulated.
The girl murmured a reply, and went about his bidding. Slowly, with a suggestion of weariness in his manner, O'Rourke went to the back of the room, where he found a little compartment, partitioned off, containing benches and a small table.
​On the table he seated himself, sighing with content. A window, open, faced him, giving upon the garden of the inn. Without there was a vista of nodding scarlet hollyhocks, of sunflowers, of hyacinths, and of many homely, old-fashioned blooms growing in orderly luxuriance. A light breeze swept across them, bearing their fragrance in through the casement.
O'Rourke bared his head to it gratefully, and fumbled in his pocket for pipe and tobacco.
"Upon me word," he sighed, "'twill be hard to tear meself away, now!" Nor was he thinking of the girl just then, nor of aught save the homely comfort of the Inn of the Winged God.
He began to smoke, and, smoking, his thoughts wandered into a reverie; so that he sat lost to his surroundings, staring at the hollyhocks and hyacinths—and seeing naught but the eyes of Beatrix, Princesse de Grandlieu.
The girl's step failed to rouse him; he stared on, out of the window, giving her no heed as she waited by his side with the foaming stein.
For her part, she seemed patient enough. He made a gallant figure—this O'Rourke—sitting at ease upon the table. And some such thought may have been in her mind—that his was a figure to fill the eyes of a woman. Her own never left him for many minutes.
She remarked the signs of travel: the dust that lay thick upon his shoulders, and whitened his shoes; the drawn look about the man's eyes; the firm lines about his mouth that told of steadfastness and determination. And she sighed, but very softly.
But an inn maid may not be eying a stranger for hours together; she has her duties to perform. Presently the girl put the stein down with a little crash.
​"M'sieur is served," she announced loudly.
O'Rourke came to with a little start. "Thank you, me dear," he said, and buried his nose in the froth. "Faith," he added, lowering the vessel, "'tis like wine—or your eyes, darlint." To prove this, he smiled engagingly into those eyes.
She did not appear to resent the compliment, nor his manner. "M'sieur has traveled far?" she would know, standing with lowered lashes, her slender fingers playing diffidently with a fold of her apron.
"Not so far that I'm blinded to your sweet face," he averred. "But 'tis truth for ye that I've covered many a mile since sunrise."
"M'sieur does not come from these parts?"
"From Paris."
Although she stood with her back to the light, and though O'Rourke could distinguish her features but dimly, yet he saw that her eyes widened; and he smiled secretly at her simplicity.
"From Paris, m'sieur? But that is far?"
"Quite far, darlint. But faith, I've no cause for complaint."
"M'sieur means—"? she queried, with naive bewilderment.
"M'sieur," he assured her gallantly, "means that no journey is long that has mam'selle at the end av it."
"Oh, m'sieur!"—protesting.
"Truth—me word for it." And the magnificent O'Rourke put a franc into her hand. "The change," he proclaimed largely, "ye may keep for yourself, little one. And this—ye may keep for me, if ye will."
"M'sieur!"
And though they were deeply shadowed, he could see her ​cheeks flaming as she backed away, rubbing the caressed spot with the corner of her apron.
O'Rourke laughed softly, without moving. "Don't be angry with me," he pleaded, but with no evident contrition. "What's in a kiss, me dear? Sure, 'tis no harm at all, at all! And how was I to hold meself back, now, with ye before me, pretty as a picture?"
It pleased her—his ready tongue. That became apparent, though she sought to hide it with a pretense of indignation.
"One would think—" she tried to storm.
"What, now, darlint?"
"One would almost believe m'sieur the Irishman!"
"An Irishman I am, praises be!" cried O'Rourke, forgetting his rôle. "But"—he remembered again—"the Irishman; now, who might that be?"
"M'sieur le Colonel O'Rourke!"
"What!" And M'sieur le Colonel O'Rourke got down from the table hastily. "Ye know me?" he demanded.
The girl's astonishment was too plain to be ignored. "It is not that m'sieur is himself M'sieur le Colonel?" she cried,, putting a discreet distance between them.
"'Tis just that. And how would ye be knowing me name, if ye please?"
"Why, surely, all know that m'sieur is coming to Lützelburg!" cried the ingenuous mam'selle. "Else why should a guard be stationed at every road crossing the frontier?"
"For what, will ye tell me?"
"For what but to keep m'sieur from entering?"
"As ye say, for what else?" O'Rourke stroked his chin, puzzled, staring at this girl who had such an astonishing fund of information.
​"Am I so unpopular, then?" he asked.
"Non, m'sieur; it is not that. It is that m'sieur is a friend of M'sieur Chambret, and—"
"Yes, yes, darlint. Go on."
He spoke soothingly, for he desired to know more. But he found it rather annoying that the girl should persist in keeping her back to the light; it was difficult to read her face, through the shadows. He maneuvered to exchange positions with mam'selle, but she seemed intuitively to divine his purpose, and outwitted the man.
"And," she resumed, under encouragement, "M'sieur Chambret is known to love Madame la Duchesse, whom Prince Georges wishes to marry. It is known to all that M'sieur Chambret was requested to leave Lützelburg. What is more natural than that he should send his friend, the Irish adventurer, to avenge him—to take his place?"
"Yes. That's all very well, me dear; but what bewilders me—more than your own bright eyes, darlint—is: how did ye discover that I was coming here?"
O'Rourke endeavored to speak lightly, but he was biting the lip of him over that epithet, "Irish adventurer"; in which there lurked a flavor that he found distasteful. "'Tis a sweet-smelling reputation I bear in these parts," he thought ruefully.
"What"—the girl leaned toward O'Rourke, almost whispering; whereby she riveted his attention upon her charms as well as upon her words—"is more natural, m'sieur, than that Prince Georges should set a watch upon M'sieur Chambret?"
"Oh, ho!" said the Irishman. "'Tis meself that begins to see a light. And, me dear," he added sharply, "ye fill me with curiosity. How comes it that ye know so much?"
​"It is not unnatural, m'sieur." Her shrug was indescribably significant and altogether delightful. "Have I not a brother in Lützelburg castle, valet to M'sieur le Prince? If a brother drops a word or two, to his sister, now and then, is she to be blamed for his indiscretions?"
"Sure, not!" cried the Irishman emphatically. "Ye are to be thanked, I'm thinking. And where did ye say this precious frontier lay?"
"The line crosses the highway not the quarter of a mile to the south, m'sieur. You will know it when you are stopped by the outpost."
"Very likely, me dear—if so be it I'm stopped."
And as she watched his face, the girl may have thought that possibly he would not be stopped; for there was an expression thereon which boded ill to whomsoever should attempt to hinder the O'Rourke from attending to the business to which he had set himself.
"Mam'selle!" he bowed. "I'm infinitely obliged to ye. Faith, 'tis yourself that has done a great service this day to the O'Rourke—and be that same token 'tis the O'Rourke that hardly knows how to reward ye!"
"But—" she suggested timidly, yet with archness lurking in her tone, "does not M'sieur le Colonel consider that he has amply rewarded me, in advance?" And upon these words she began to scrub her cheek vigorously with her apron.
He threw back his head and laughed; and was still laughing—for she had been too sharp for him—when she rose, with a warning finger upon her lips.
"M'sieur!"—earnestly. "Silence, if you please—for your life's sake!"
"Eh!" cried O'Rourke startled. And then the laugh died in his throat. The girl had turned, and now her profile was ​black against the sunny window; and it was most marvelously perfect. O'Rourke's breath came fast as he looked; for she was surprisingly fair and good to look upon. It was the first time he had seen her clearly enough to fully comprehend her perfection, and he stood for a moment, without stirring, or, indeed, coherently thinking. It was not the nature of this man to neglect a beautiful woman at any time; he grudged this girl no meed of the admiration that was her due.
In a moment he felt her fingers soft and warm about his own; his heart leaped—an Irishman's heart, not fickle, but inflammable; and then he repressed an exclamation as his fingers were crushed in a grip so strong and commanding that it fairly amazed him.
And, "Silence; ah, silence, m'sieur!" the girl begged him, in a whisper.
Were they observed, then? He turned toward the outer door, but saw no one. But from the highway there came a clatter of hoofs.
"Soldiers!" the girl breathed. "Soldiers, m'sieur, from the frontier post. Let me go. I—"
Almost violently she wrested her hand from his, darting toward the door with a gesture that warned him back to his partitioned corner if he valued his incognito.
Halfway across the floor she shrank back with a little cry of dismay, as the entrance to the Inn of the Winged God was darkened by two new arrivals.
They swung into the room, laughing together: tall men both, long and strong of limb, with the bearing of men confident of their place and prowess. O'Rourke, peering guardedly out from his corner, saw that they were both in uniform: green and gold tunics above closely fitting breeches ​of white, with riding boots of patent leather—the officers' uniform of the ducal army of Lützelburg.
Now, since his coming, the taproom of the Winged God had been gradually darkening as evening drew nigh. Already—O'Rourke was surprised to observe—it was twilight without; now, suddenly, the sun sank behind the purple ridge of the distant mountains, and at once gloom shrouded the room. In it the figures of the two soldiers loomed large and vaguely.
One raised his voice, calling: "Lights!"
The girl murmured something, moving away.
"Lights, girl; lights!"
"I will send some one, messieurs," O'Rourke heard her say.
"Unnecessary, my dear," returned the first speaker. "Come hither, little one. Here is the lamp, and here a match."
Unwillingly, it seemed to the Irishman, the inn maid obeyed, stepping upon a bench and raising her arm to light the single lamp that depended from the ceiling. A match flared in her fingers, illuminating the upturned, intent face.
And O'Rourke caught at his breath again. "Faith!" he said softly, "she is that wonderful!"
Some such thought seemed to cross the minds of both the others, at the same moment. One swore delicately—presumably in admiration; his fellow shifted to a killing pose, twirling his mustache—the elder of the pair, evidently, and a man with a striking distinction of carriage.
The girl jumped lightly from the bench and turned away; but she was not yet to be permitted to retire, it seemed.
"Here, girl!" called he who had mouthed the oath.
She turned reluctantly; the glow of the brightening lamp fell about her like a golden aureole.
​"Messieurs?" she asked with a certain dignity.
"So," drawled the elder officer, "you are a new maid, I presume?"
"Yes, messieurs," she replied, courtesying low—to hide her confusion, perhaps; for she was crimson under their bold appraisal of her charms.
"Ah! Name, little one?"
"Delphine, messieurs."
"Delphine, eh? A most charming name, for a most charming girl!"
"Merci, messieurs!"
She dropped a second humble courtesy. And O'Rourke caught himself fancying that she did so in mockery—though, indeed, such spirit would have assorted strangely with her lowly station.
But as she rose and confronted the men again, the elder took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, roughly twisting her face to the light.
"Strange—" he started to say; but the girl jerked away angrily.
"Pardon, messieurs," she said, "but I would—"
Nor did she finish what was on the tip of her tongue for utterance. For she was turning away, making as though to escape, when this younger man clasped her suddenly about the waist; and before she realized what was toward, he had kissed her squarely.
O'Rourke slid from his table seat, with a little low-toned oath. But for the moment he held himself back. It seemed as though Mademoiselle Delphine was demonstrating her ability to take care of herself.
Her white and rounded arm shot out impetuously, and her five fingers impinged upon the cheek of the younger man with ​a crack like a pistol shot. He jumped away, with a laughing cry of protest.
"A shrew!" he cried. "A termagant, Prince Georges!"
In another moment she would have been gone, but the elder officer was not to be denied.
"No, just a woman!" he corrected. "A tempestuous maid, to be tamed, Charles! Not so fast, little one!" And he caught her by the arm.
She wheeled upon him furiously, with a threatening hand; but his own closed about her wrist, holding her helpless the while he drew her steadily toward him.
"But one!" he pretended to beg. "But one little kiss, Mistress Delphine!"
"This has gone about far enough, messieurs," O'Rourke interposed, judging it time. For it is one thing to kiss a pretty girl yourself, and quite another to stand by and watch a stranger kiss her regardless of her will.
So he came down toward the group slowly, with a protesting palm upraised.
But the prince gave him hardly a glance; he was intent upon the business of the moment. "Kick this fellow out, Charles," he cried contemptuously, relaxing nothing of his hold upon the girl. And then, to her: "Come, Mam'selle Delphine, but a single kiss—"
"No!" she cried. "No, messieurs!"
There was a terror in her tone that set O'Rourke's blood to boiling. He forgot himself, forgot the danger of his position—that danger of which he had been so lately apprised by the girl herself. He laid a hand upon the fellow's collar, with no attempt at gentleness, and another upon his wrist. A second later the prince was sprawling in the sand upon the floor.
​And O'Rourke promptly found himself engaged in defending himself, to the best of his slight ability, from a downward sweep of the younger officer's broadsword.
"Ye damned coward!" the Irishman cried, ablaze with rage.
His walking stick—a stout blackthorn relic of the old country—deflected the blade. The young officer spat a curse at him and struck carelessly again, displaying neither judgment nor skill. O'Rourke caught the blow a second time upon the stick, twisted the blackthorn through the other's guard and rapped him sharply across the knuckles.
"Ye infernal poltroon!" he said furiously. "To attack an unarmed man!"
The sword swept up through the air in a glittering arc, to fall clattering in a far corner. O'Rourke gave it slight heed. There was much to be accomplished ere that sword should strike the earth.
He leaped in upon the younger officer, whirling the blackthorn above his head; the man stepped back, raising his arms as though dazed. The stick descended with force enough to beat down this guard and crash dully upon his skull. He fell—like a log, in fact; and so lay still for a space.
And O'Rourke jumped back upon the instant, and just in time to knock a revolver from the hand of the elder man.
"Ye, too—a coward!" he raged. "Are there no men in this land?"
Simultaneously, in falling, the revolver was discharged. The shot rang loudly in the confines of the taproom walls, but the bullet buried itself harmlessly in the wainscoting. O'Rourke jumped for it and kicked the pistol through the open doorway.
"So much for that!" he cried, darting toward the corner ​where the sword of the unconscious man had fallen. "Come, Prince Georges of Lützelburg—princely coward!" he taunted the elder man. "Come—'tis one to one, now—sword to sword, monsieur! Are ye afraid, or will ye fight—ye scum of the earth?"
He need hardly have asked. Already the prince was upon his feet, and had drawn. O'Rourke's fingers closed upon the hilt of the saber. A thrill ran through him; this was his life to him, to face odds, to have a sword in his hand.
"Good!" he cried joyfully. "Now, Monsieur le Prince!"
He met the onslaught with a hasty parry. A cluster of sparks flew from the blades. O'Rourke boldly stepped in to close quarters, his right arm swinging the heavy saber like a feather, his left ending in a clenched hand held tightly to the small of his back.
The room filled with the ringing clangor of the clashing steel. Prince Georges at least was not afraid of personal hurt; he engaged the Irishman closely, cutting and parrying with splendid skill—a wonderful swordsman, a beau sabreur, master of his weapon and—master of O'Rourke. The Irishman was quick to realize this. He had met more than his match; the man who opposed him was his equal in weight and length of arm, his equal in defense, his superior in attack. He fought at close quarters, giving not an inch, but rather ever pressing in upon him, hammering down upon his guard a veritable tornado of crashing blows.
O'Rourke reeled and gave ground under the furious onslaught. He leaped away time and again, only to find the prince again upon him, abating no whit of his determined attack. In his eyes O'Rourke read nothing of mercy, naught but a perhaps long dormant blood-lust suddenly roused. He came to an understanding that he was fighting for his life, ​that this was no mere fencing bout,—no child's play, but deadly earnest. And with his mind's eye he foresaw the outcome.
Well—one can but die. At least Prince Georges should have his fill of fighting; and an Irishman who fights hopelessly fights with all the reckless rage of a rat in a corner.
So O'Rourke fought, there in the taproom of the Inn of the Winged God. He took no risks, ventured nothing of doubtful outcome. If a chance for an attack was to come, he was ready for it, his eye like a cat's alert for an opening for thrust or slashing cut. But if that was to be denied him, he had an impregnable defense, seemingly. He might retreat—and he did, thrice circling the room—but he retreated fighting. And so, fighting, he would fall when his time came.
In one thing only he surpassed the aggressor—in endurance. His outdoor life of the past few days had put him in splendid trim. He battled on, with hardly a hair displaced; whereas Monsieur le Prince pressed his advantage by main will-power, advancing with some difficulty because of the heaving of his broad chest, gasping for air, at times, like a fish out of its element—but ever advancing, ever pressing the Irishman to the utmost.
Thrice they made the circuit of the room, O'Rourke escaping a fall or collision with the tables and chairs seemingly by a sixth sense—an eye in the back of his head that warned him of obstacles that might easily have encompassed his downfall.
He was outgeneraled, too; twice he endeavored to back himself through the outer doorway, and both times the prince got between the Irishman and his sole remaining hope of escape.
And then it narrowed down to a mere contest of ​endurance—Monsieur le Prince already tired, and O'Rourke, fast failing, beginning to feel the effects of his day's long tramp. The room began to whirl dizzily about them both—like a changing, hazy panorama, wherein O'Rourke was dimly conscious of pink, gaping faces filling the doorways, and the round, staring eyes of frightened and awed peasants at the windows.
And so, possibly, it was as a relief to both when, eventually, the Irishman managed to get the breadth of a table between them, and when each was free to pause and gasp for breath the while they glared one at the other, measuring each his opponent's staying powers—for to a test of sheer lasting ability it was now come. The man who should be able to keep upon his feet the longest—he was to win. And neither read "quarter" in his enemy's eyes.
As they stood thus, watching one another jealously, out of the tail of his eye O'Rourke saw the fallen officer—Charles—stir, and sit upright. He dared not take his attention from the prince, and yet he was able to note that the younger man at first stared confusedly, then staggered to his feet, and so doing, put his hand to his pistol holster.
Opportunely a curious thing occurred. A voice rang through the room loudly, cheerfully:
"The O'Rourke!" it stated explicitly. "Or Satan himself!"
All three turned, by a common impulse, toward the outer door. It framed a man entirely at his ease, dressed in the grotesque arrangement that constitutes an automobiling costume in these days, holding in his left hand the goggle mask which the driver affects. But in the other hand, level with his eye, he poised a revolver, the muzzle of which was directly trained upon him whom Prince Georges had called Charles.
​"Chambret!" cried O'Rourke. "Upon me soul, ye're welcome!"
"I thought as much, my friend," replied Chambret. "And I am glad to be in time to—to see fair play, Colonel Charles! May I suggest, monsieur, that you take your hand from the butt of that weapon and stand aside until my friend has settled his little affair with Monsieur le Prince?"
The face of the young officer flushed darkly red; he bit his lip with rage, darting toward Chambret a venomous glance. Yet he stood aside, very obediently, as a wiser man than he might well have done.
"O'Rourke!" then cried Chambret. "Guard, my friend—guard yourself!"
It was time. Monsieur le Prince, sticking at nothing, had edged stealthily around the table. O'Rourke, startled, put himself in a defensive position in the very nick of time. Another moment and Chambret's warning had been vain.
Again they fought, but now less spiritedly; to O'Rourke it seemed as though the contest had degenerated into a mere endeavor to kill time, rather than to dispose of one another. And yet he was acutely conscious that a single misstep would seal his death warrant.
He found time, too, to wonder even a trifle bitterly what had become of Mademoiselle Delphine. It seemed passing strange that he saw naught of her—had missed her ever since he had come to her aid. Surely she had been very well content to leave him to his fate, once he had championed her cause! It was strange, he thought, according to his lights very odd …
And so thinking, he became aware that the brief interval seemed to have refreshed Monsieur le Prince more than it had himself.
​Georges now seemed possessed of seven devils, all a-thirst for the soul of O'Rourke. He flew at him, abruptly, without the least warning, like a whirlwind. O'Rourke was beaten back a dozen yards in as many seconds. There was no killing time about the present combat—O'Rourke well knew.
And he felt himself steadily failing. Once he slipped and all but went to his knees, and when he recovered was trembling in every limb like an aspen leaf. And, again, he blundered into a chair and sent it crashing to the floor; when it seemed ages ere he managed to disentangle his feet from its rounds—seemed the longer since the sword of Prince Georges quivered over him like the wrath of a just God, relentless and terrible.
He had one last hope—to get himself in a corner, with his back to the wall, and stand Monsieur le Prince off to the bitter end. At least, he prayed he might get in one good blow before—that end. And so he made for the corner nearest him.
In the end he gained it against odds—for Prince Georges, divined his purpose and did his utmost to thwart it. But when at last the Irishman had gained this slight advantage, his heart sank within him; Georges closed fearlessly, not keeping at sword's length, as O'Rourke had trusted he might.
O'Rourke was flattened, fairly, against that wall. He fought with desperate cunning, but ever more feebly. "God!" he cried once, between clinched teeth. "Could I but touch him!"
Georges heard, grinning maliciously.
"Never, fortune hunter!" he returned, redoubling his efforts. "You may well pray—"
What else he said O'Rourke never knew, for at that instant ​he felt the wall give to the pressure of his shoulders, and a breath of cool air swept past him.
"A door!" he thought, and, leaping backwards, fell sprawling in utter darkness.
It was indeed a door. As he lay there the Irishman caught a transient glimpse of a woman's head and shoulders outlined against the light, and then the door was closed, and he heard her throw herself bodily against it, with the dull click of a bolt shot home; also a maddened oath, and a terrific blow delivered upon the panels by the sword of Monsieur le Prince.