But John Hull was too quick for him. He caught him by the arm, wrenched him back into the room, sent him spinning into the centre of it, and took two steps towards him, his right fist half raised to deal him a great blow.

The creature mewed like a cat, ducked suddenly and ran at the yeoman, gripping him round the waist with long, thin arms.

There was no sound as they struggled--this long, eel-like thing, in its mask and crimson robe twining round his st.u.r.dy opponent like some parasite writhing with evil life.

John Hull rocked, striving to bend forward and get a grip of his antagonist. But it was useless. He could do nothing, and he was being slowly forced backwards towards the door.

There was horror upon the man's brown face, horror of this silent, clinging thing which fought with fury, and in a fashion that none other had fought with him in all his life.

Then, as he realised what was happening, he stood up for a moment, staggering backwards as he did so, pulled out the dagger from his belt and struck three great blows downwards into the thin scarlet back, burying the steel up to the hilt at each fierce stroke.

There was a sudden "Oh," quite quiet and a little surprised, the sort of sound a man might make when he sees a friend come unexpectedly into his room....

That was all. It was over in some thirty seconds, there was a convulsive wriggle on the floor, and the man, if indeed it was a man, lay on its back stiff in death. The mask of black velvet had been torn off in the struggle, and they saw a tiny white face, painted and hairless, set on the end of a muscular and stringy neck--a monster lying there in soulless death.

"Have you killed it?" Commendone asked, suddenly.

"Yes, master." Hull's head was averted from what lay upon the carpet, even while he was pushing it towards the heap of cushions at the side of the room. Leaning over the body, he took a cushion from the heap--a gaudy thing of green and orange--and wiped his boot.

"Listen!" Johnnie said, still with his hand covering the woman's face.

They listened intently. Not a sound was to be heard.

"As I take it," Commendone answered, "there are no men in the house except only those two we have come to seek. The alarm hath not been given, and that _eunuque_ is dead. We must settle Madame here." He laughed a grim, menacing laugh as he spoke.

Immediately the figure in his hands began to writhe and tremble, the feet beat a dull tattoo upon the carpet, the eyes protruded from their layers of paint, a snorting, snuffling noise came from beneath Commendone's hand. He caught it away instantly, shuddering with disgust.

"Kill me not! kill me not!" the old woman gasped. "They are upstairs, the King and his friend. The girl is there. I know nothing of her, she was brought to me in the dark by the King's servants. Kill me not; I will stay silent." Her voice failed. She fell suddenly back in her chair, and looked at them with indescribable horror in her eyes.

"I'll see to her, master," Hull said in a quiet voice, his face still distorted with mastiff-like fury.

He caught up his blood-stained dagger from the floor, stepped to the stiffened corpse, curved by teta.n.u.s into a bow, and ripped up a long piece of the gown which covered it. Quickly and silently he tied the old woman's ankles together, her hands behind her back--the podgy wrists would not meet, nor near it--and again he went to the corpse for further bonds.

"And now to stop her mouth," he said, "or she will be calling."

Commendone took out his handkerchief. "Here," he said. In an instant Hull had rolled it into a ball, pressed it between the painted lips, and tied it in its place with the last strip of velvet.

All this had taken but hardly a minute. Then he stood up and looked at his master. "The time comes," he said.

Johnnie nodded, and walked slowly, with quiet footsteps, towards the door in the arras at the other side of the room.

He felt warily for the handle, found it, turned it gently, and saw a narrow stairway stretching upwards, and lit by a lamp somewhere above.

The stair was uncarpeted, but it was of old and ma.s.sive oak, and, drawing his sword, he crept cautiously up, Hull following him like a cat.

They found themselves in a corridor with doors on each side, each door painted with a big white number. It was lit, warm, and very still.

Johnnie put his fingers to his lips, and both men listened intently.

The silence was absolute. They might have been in an empty house. No single indication of human movement came to them as they stood there.

For nearly a minute they remained motionless. Their eyes were fixed and horror-struck, their ears strained to an intensity of listening.

Then, at last, they heard a sound, quite unexpectedly and very near.

It came from the door immediately upon their right, which was painted with the number "3," and was simply the click of a sword in its scabbard. Johnnie took two noiseless steps to the door, settled his sword in his hand, flung it open, and leapt in.

He was in a large low room panelled round its sides, the panels painted white, the beadings picked out in crimson. A carpet covered the floor, a low fire burnt upon a wide open hearth. There were two or three padded sofa lounges here and there, and in front of the fire-place in riding clothes, though without his hat or gloves, stood Sir John Shelton.

There was a dead silence for several seconds, only broken by the click of the outer door, as Hull pushed it into its place, and shot the bolt.

Shelton grew very white, but said nothing.

With his sword ready to a.s.sume the guard, Johnnie walked to the centre of the room.

The bully's face grew whiter still. Little drops of moisture glistened on his forehead, and on his blonde moustache.

Then he spoke.

"Ah! Mr. Commendone!" he said, with a horrid little laugh. "News from Court, I suppose? Is it urgent? His Grace is engaged within, but I will acquaint him. His Grace is engaged----" There came a t.i.tter of discovery and fear from his lips. His words died away into silence.

Johnnie advanced towards him, his sword pointed at his heart.

"What does this mean, Mr. Commendone?"

"Death."

The man's sword was out in a moment. The touch of it seemed to bring the life back to him, and with never a word, he sprang at Commendone. He was a brave man enough, a clever fencer too, but he knew now that his hour had come. He read it in the fixed face before him, that face of frozen fury. He knew it directly the blades touched. Indeed he was no match for Commendone, with his long training, and clean, abstemious life. But even had he been an infinitely superior swordsman, he knew that he would have had no chance in that moment. There was something behind the young man's arm which no Sir John Shelton could resist.

The blades rattled together and struck sparks in the lamp-light. Click!

Clatter! Click!--"Ah!" the long-drawn breath, a breath surging up from the very entrails--Click! Clatter! Click!

The fierce cold fury of that fight was far beyond anything in war, or the ordinary duello. It was _a outrance_, there was only one end to it, and that came very swiftly.

Commendone was not fighting for safety. He cared not, and knew nothing, of what the other might have in reserve. He did not even wait to test his adversary's tricks of fence, as was only cautious and usual. Nothing could have withstood him, and in less than two minutes from the time the men had engaged, the end came. Commendone made a half-lunge, which was parried by the dagger in Sir John's left hand, and then, quick as lightning, his sword was through Shelton's throat, through and through.

The Captain fell like a log, hiccoughed, and lay still.

"Two," said John Hull.

Johnnie withdrew his sword, holding it downwards, watching it drip; then he turned to his servant. "Sir John was here on guard," he said; "this is the ante-room to where She is. But I see no door, save only the one by which we entered."

"Hist!" Hull replied, almost before his master had finished speaking.

He pointed to the opposite wall, and both men saw a long, narrow bar of orange light, a momentarily widening slit, opening in a panel.

The panel swung back entirely, forming a sort of hatch or window, and through it, yellow, livid, and terror-struck, looked the face of the King.

Without a word John Hull rushed towards that part of the wall. When he was within a yard of it he gathered himself up and leapt against it, like a battering-ram. There was a crash, as the concealed door was torn away from its hinges. Hull lay measuring his length upon the floor, and Johnnie leaped over the prostrate form into the room beyond.