Roger did not see his enemy's ghastly end. His desperate stroke had given him an outside chance to break away through the ring of spectators and plunge into the forest. If he could succeed in that the dense vegetation would swallow him up. Even a penetration of a dozen yards might be enough to enable him to escape recapture; but it was now or never.
The instant de Senlac jerked forward on to his toes Roger swung about. He had deliberately refrained from using his hands, in order that he might have his fists already clenched. One stride brought him within a yard of the man who had just untied him. His right fist caught the man beneath the jaw and sent him sprawling. He was flat on his back even before the sound of the splash made by the Vicomte's body cut short his yell.
Roger's actions had been so swift that only the nearer members of the crowd had yet grasped the full significance of them. While they remained motionless and gaping in astonished silence he seized the opportunity to shout with all the power of his lungs:
"Dan! Tom! Old Circe men! Help!" Then he yelled in French: "Slaves! Free yourselves! The Tyrant is dead! Take courage! Rally to me!"
His last words were drowned in a pandemonium of shouting, yells and curses. As though the tension had been released by a spring, every figure in the clearing leapt into motion. The younger Herault whipped out a knife and ran at him from one side, the elder from the other. Catching the sangmele’s wrist he gave it a violent twist. The knife slipped from his grasp and fell with a clang upon the rock. He let out a screech of pain; but his father had seized Roger round the waist in a trained wrestler's grip and, with surprising strength for a man of his age, threw him off his balance.
As he went down he caught a glimpse of the women. Amanda and Jenny were on their feet again. The former was clawing the eyes out of her guard and his cheeks were scored with bloody furrows, where her nails had gashed them. The latter was still struggling with hers and beating at his face with her clenched fists. Clarissa had broken free and was running towards him. Georgina had snatched a knife from her guard's belt and was stabbing with it at his stomach.
Roger hit the ground with a thump. Next moment, despite the gallant diversion created by the women, he thought the game was up. Both the Heraults were about to throw themselves upon him and out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Cyrano brandishing a cavalry sabre.
When the melee started de Senlac's Lieutenant had been talking to some men half-way along the ridge of boulders. As his back was turned he had not seen Roger knee the Vicomte into the pool, and owing to the agony he was suffering from his knee he had made poor speed in recrossing the clearing. Yet now he was only a few yards off, his long curved sword held high ready to deliver a deadly stroke. Roger, prone on his back, could do nothing to evade the flashing blade. His bid for freedom had started so well, but it seemed he had made it in vain.
Help came from an unexpected quarter. The report of a musket rang out above the shouting of the crowd. Cyrano's eyes started in his head, his jaw went slack. Shot through the back, he crashed forward on to his face, his right arm still outstretched so that the tip of his sabre struck a spark from the rock only six inches short of Roger's head.
It was Dan who had saved him. The ex-smuggler and Tom were lying hidden in the undergrowth on the edge of the low cliff above the boulders. Thinking it certain that Roger's hands would be untied before he was bound up afresh in the harness attached to the gibbet, Dan had been waiting for that moment intending, as soon as Roger once more had the use of his fists, to shoot the Vicomte. But Roger had forestalled him with de Senlac so he had to hold his fire until he could aim at a worthwhile target without risk of hitting his master.
Again the element of surprise stood Roger in good stead. As Cyrano fell within a few yards or them, both the Heraults took their eyes from him to stare round in swift apprehension, wondering whence the shot had come, and fearing to be the next target.
Rolling over Roger jumped to his feet, struck Jean a glancing blow with his fist and kicked the older man in the groin. With a screech pere Herault doubled up and staggered back clutching at his genitals. His son landed a kick on Roger's thigh which again sent him sprawling.
Two more pirates were running to the young man's assistance but once more Roger was saved by a new diversion. A bang like that of a small cannon sounded above the din. Tom had discharged a blunderbuss loaded with old nails and scraps of iron into a tightly packed group of pirates and their molls on a flat-topped boulder just below him.
At such close range every fragment from the terrible weapon found a lodgment in human flesh. Screams, curses, groans rent the air. Next moment Dan and Tom, cutlasses in hand, leapt down on to the ledge and were laying about them among the survivors. Those up on the boulder offered no resistance and, scrambling down on to the flat floor of the clearing, the two stalwarts began to hack then-way towards Roger.
But the fight was far from over. Seizing Jean by the ankle Roger lugged at it and brought him down. Shooting out a hand he grabbed Roger by the hair. Next moment they were grappling wildly. One of the pirates who had run up held a pistol. Aiming at Roger's head he fired, but at that second Roger gave a violent jerk to free his hair. The bullet missed him and smashed the sangmele’s elbow. In an instant Roger had struck him in the face and he rolled away now hors de combat.
Their struggle had brought them to the edge of the pool. As Roger scrambled to his knees, both pirates came at him together, and a third was now close on their heels. The nearest aimed a heavy kick at his face, with the intention of sending him over the edge. Roger jerked his head aside so that the man's foot went over his shoulder. Throwing himself forward, he flung his arms round the leg upon which the man was still standing. With a terrific heave he lifted the weighty body straddled above him, then let go. For a moment it was suspended on his back head down and feet in the air. He gave another heave and the man slithered off behind him, with his arms threshing the empty air three feet out from the pool's rim.
The second pirate had clubbed his pistol, but seeing his comrade's desperate situation flung it at Roger's head, then seized the first man's foot in an endeavour to save him. Roger dodged the pistol, scrambled up, and as the third man rushed upon him was just in time to trip this new adversary.
He was gasping as though his lungs would burst; but now after days of helpless despair, he was his old self again. None of these lumbering brutes was his match for quick wits and agility and he felt that only numbers could overcome him.
The last of the three to go down was a mulatto, and in his hand he still held a short sword. He had hardly hit the ground before Roger brought a heel down on his wrist with such force that both of them heard the bone crunch. Stooping, Roger tore the sword from the nerveless fingers. Of all weapons it was the one he would have chosen for such a fight. He plunged it into the side of the pirate who was trying to drag his comrade back from the pool's edge. The wounded man gave a horrible gurgle, flung back his head, and let go; the other flopped into the pool with a resounding splash, came up to give one howl that echoed through the clearing, and was dragged under by the caymans.
The mulatto with the broken wrist scuffled off as swiftly as he could. Jean Herault was some way away moaning over his shattered elbow. His father had collapsed and lay writhing on the ground. Cyrano, paralysed from the waist down by a smashed spine, could now only curse feebly between bouts of vomiting blood. But the man whom Roger had knocked unconscious with a right to the jaw was coming round. Stepping forward, he kicked him hard on the side of the head and put him out again.