"Your friend's gone for help," said Trenmore to the chief conversationally. "He's a bright lad and I'd counsel you to advance him. You need help the way you'd sell your mouse of a soul to get it; don't you, my fine policeman? Don't you? Answer me, you scum!"
"Y-yes!" gasped the chief.
The breath was half squeezed out of him, and his feet stumbled and dragged as he backed with his relentless captor along the corridor. And still the guards followed, step for step, rifles half raised, and in their midst the prisoners.
A minute and Trenmore had reached a break in the red wall. Beyond it was a short flight of stairs. Terry backed around the corner. With a little rush, the pursuing guard came after. They found him halfway up the flight, still dragging their reluctant chief. He had reached the landing at the top. Behind it was an arched doorway, of which the heavy bronze doors stood open, fastened back flat to the wall.
Feeling with his foot for the floor catch, Trenmore found it and trod down. The door, released, swung out a trifle. Standing to one side and again feeling backward with his foot, Terry caught the edge with his toe and gave the door a pull. It moved easily on well-oiled hinges. Next instant, without once having turned his back on the guard, he was able to get his shoulder behind the door and push it to. The other door he treated in the same way, leaving an aperture between.
Then, without warning and with lightning speed, he lowered the gun, stooped, picked the chief up by the ankles and collar, gave him one mighty swing and pitched him headlong down upon his allies.
The hurtling body struck two of the foremost, knocking them backward. There were shouts, and somebody's rifle exploded accidentally. Another guard fired intentionally toward the stair head. But the space there was empty. The bullet splashed on the innocent bronze nose of a cupid in bas-relief, flying across a door shut tight and already bolted from the inside.
Trenmore, panting on the little balcony of the Threat of Penn, congratulated himself that earlier in the day he had observed those doors and those strangely placed inner bolts. Already men were banging and shouting outside; but Trenmore only chuckled.
"They'll need dynamite for that little job," he murmured happily. "I'm thinking the Servants put those doors there for just the purpose they're now serving. Sword, you were made for the hand of a man, not the grip of this cold metal thing!"
He was examining the bronze fist that held the great sword upright. Though the heavy door shook and clanged to the besiegers' futile blows, he was cool as if alone in the Temple. He had not yet even glanced down into the Hall of Justice.
Across the knuckles of the Hand of Penn ran a tiny line, green-edged with verdigris. It was a flaw, a crack in the age-old bronze.
His inspection completed, Trenmore sprang into action with the sudden wholeheartedness which was a disconcerting factor in his make-up. Throwing off his coat he removed a large handkerchief from the pocket, wadded it in his right hand and grasped the blade high up. Seizing the pommel in his left hand, slowly but with gathering force, he twisted at the sword. It did not move. His white shirt stood out in bulging lumps over his laboring shoulders. His face went dark red. The purple veins rose and throbbed on a forehead beaded with great drops of perspiration. He did not jerk or heave at the thing. He merely twisted and the leverage was terrific.
There came a loud crack, like the report of a pistol. Within the wall something dropped clanging, and the sword gave way so suddenly that Trenmore was hurled to the floor. Picking himself up, he calmly resumed his coat and stooped for the famous weapon. Not only had the bronze hand fallen in two pieces, freeing the grip, but the whole wrist had broken loose from the wall, leaving only a blank black hole.
Trenmore was not concerned for the mechanism so ruthlessly shattered. He cared only for the shining prisoner he had released. He raised it with both hands to the roughened grip. As he did so the yellow light from the dome slid flamelike down the long blade. It was a weight for any two ordinary men to carry; but the Irishman swung it up and over his shoulder with hardly an effort.
"You're a heavy one, my beauty, and no mistake," he muttered. "Even Terence Trenmore would not care to swing you many times together. But that which you struck would never strike back, I'm thinking."
And then at last, with the sword on his shoulder, he turned and looked down from the railing. The blows on the door had ceased. He now perceived the reason. Midway across the hall, with upturned faces and raised rifles, waited every man of the prison guard he had so successfully eluded. Trenmore's appearance was greeted with shouts and a scattering volley. Unhurt but considerably startled, he skipped back.
"Powers o' darkness!" he gasped. "I'm a fool or I'd have expected it. And now what am I to do, will you tell me that, Sword of Battle?"
But the sword was silent.
He was safe where he now stood, for the balcony was high enough and deep enough to be out of range from any place on the floor. And it was made of metal too heavy for bullets to penetrate.
"They'll not use those machine guns," reflected Trenmore, "for they couldn't and not hit the bell. But if they've the brains of a rat-and they have just about that-they'll send riflemen up where the guns are placed and pick me off like a cat on a wall. Before they do that, we'll rush it, Sword o' Beauty. And if they fire on us after-well, they'll hit their own bell, and that's a thing I don't think they'll want. Now, then!"
Balancing the sword on his shoulder, he dashed at the rail and vaulted to the narrow plank bridge left by the electricians. Though it bent and swayed sickeningly under the double weight of Trenmore and the huge sword, he ran its length as if it were a brick causeway. A moment later he brought up clinging to the scaffold about the bell. His speed had not averted another volley, but all the harm done was to the golden carvings on the wall around the balcony.
"You're but poor marksmen," growled Trenmore between his teeth. "You've a beautiful target now, though. The question is, will you dare shoot at it?"
The guard scattered and spread out. Several men aimed at Trenmore on the bell, but a sharp command caused them to lower their weapons. The word came from none other than the chief himself, who now walked to a place whence he could look up at Trenmore and Trenmore down at him. If the chief's fall had injured him he showed no signs of it.
"Praise Heaven, your neck wasn't broke at all, chief," called the Irishman cheerfully. "I was afeared for you so I could scarce do my work; but I got me a pretty plaything for all that!"
That the chief might see, he raised the sword and balanced it in his hands.
"Where-How did you get that?"
"From the Hand of Penn," came the Irishman's gay reply. "Sure, for all he was a Quaker, Penn's the kind-hearted old gentleman that would never withhold a weapon from a lad in a tight place!"
And he swung the sword about his head till it glittered like a wheel of fire. "'Twill make a world o' noise when it strikes the bell. Eh, my little policeman?"
"You must not-you dare not!" shrieked Quickest. The last shred of his composure had dropped off like a torn cloak. He at least seemed to share the superstition of the Numbers with regard to the old Threat of Penn.
Trenmore, however, felt that he had given the police sufficient attention. He was casting for bigger fish than they. Why had his bait not yet been taken? The bell, scaffolding and all, swung alarmingly against the electricians' tethering ropes; but Trenmore cautiously made his way a step or so along the planking.
There was the dais, and before it yawned the pit, open again and glaring upward like a red eye set in the milk-white floor. Close by, under guard, stood his four companions watching the bell with anxious eyes.
Drayton and Viola greeted Terry's appearance with a cheer and waved their hands encouragingly. In response Terry raised the sword, called a hearty greeting, and looked at the dais.