Seconds later he heard the crashing of heavy feet. O Diabo had left his woman and was after him. But he still had a chance. He was a very fast runner. If only he could get through the window, he had a good hope of outdistancing his pursuers. Alas for that hope. At that very moment the man who had taken his horse round to the stable appeared outside the window. Sizing up the situation in the salon at a glance, he swiftly drew a thin-bladed dagger and crouched on the threshold barring Roger's way.
Unless Roger had rushed upon the man's stiletto, he would have had to pull up in his wild career, and feint with his broken sword before striking out to cut him down. Even the pause of a moment would, he knew, bring O Diabo on him from behind. But there was still just one hope. The other three men were hard on O Diabo'' heels, so the door of the room, left half-open by the runt, was unguarded.
Roger swerved toward it. He had one foot in the air and was now sideways on to O Diabo, The giant's great fist shot out and caught him squarely on the cheek. The blow seemed to jolt every tooth in his head. For a second stars and circles whirled against blackness before his eyes. His sword dropped from his hand. With one foot still in the air, he heeled over and crashed to the ground.
For four or five heart-beats he lay there. Then, bemused but with the instinct of self-preservation still uppermost, he struggled to get up. Next moment, the whole pack was round him. The runt gave him a vicious kick in the ribs, but he shot out a hand and grabbed the bandit's other leg by the ankle, threw himself sideways and brought the little man down on top of him. Gasping in a deep breath, he raised both hands and got them round the runt's throat.
In vain the runt beat at Roger's face with his bleeding hands. Three of his fingers had been broken by the sword hilt, so pain prevented him from putting any strength into his blows. O Diabo, evidently thinking the little man's plight amusing, stood back and guffawed; but the bandit's other comrades came to his assistance. Seizing Roger's arms they strove to pull them away, and to break his grip on the runt's neck. Panting now, and with sweat pouring down his face, Roger hung on like grim death, pressing his strong thumbs firmly into the soft flesh below the other's chin. His mouth had opened and his tongue stuck out. His dark, fear-stricken eyes began to pop. Another minute and he would have been strangled into unconsciousness. But before half that minute had gone Roger felt a hand thrust up between his legs. It was that of the woman he had wounded, using her sound arm. The hand found his testicles, grabbed them and squeezed. A ghastly pain shot up from them into his stomach and seemed to pierce his heart. He gave a scream of agony, let go of the runt's neck and fainted.
When he came to, he was still lying in the same place on the floor. His breath was coming in gasps, tears were running down his cheeks and stabs of pain racked his body. His head was splitting and his jaw ached from the blow O Diabo had struck him on the side of the face. For several minutes he lay quite still, endeavoring to decrease the pain by taking only short, shallow breaths. After a while he turned his head, first to one side, then to the other, dimly taking in what was going on in the room.
O Diabo was again lounging on the sofa, now smoking a long clay pipe. The wounded woman was having her shoulder bound up by the other woman, who had taken no part in the fight. The runt had disappeared, presumably to nurse his injuries, so had the man who had been his companion in the ambush. There remained the two who had been with O Diabo when Roger had been brought into the room. One was a stout, brawny fellow with ginger hair. The other was the youngster whose arm Roger had slashed. He was darker-skinned than the others and had a flattened nose, so was probably half Negro. His wound had already been attended to and his arm was in a sling.
Both the door of the room and the french windows were still open; but they might have been bolted and barred as far as Roger was concerned. He was in such pain that he found it difficult to concentrate his thoughts and if he had managed to get to his feet he doubted if he would be able to walk, let alone put up a fight.
After a time O Diabo finished his pipe, got up and crossed the room to help himself to a mug of wine from a jug that stood on a side table. As he passed Roger he noticed that his eyes were open. Kneeling, he raised Roger's head, put the mug to his lips and said:
'Drink some of this, Frenchie. It'll put a bit of strength into you."
The wine was coarse and sharp, but Roger sucked it in gratefully, thinking meanwhile that this giant with the bright blue eyes could not be altogether evil. But his flickering hope of mercy was short-lived, as the other added, 'If we can't get you back into fair shape, you'll kick the bucket too soon and spoil our evening's sport.'
Roger stopped drinking, let his head fall back and groaned.
'Scared a bit, Frenchie?' the big man grinned, showing the ugly gap in the centre of his upper row of teeth. 'But we can't let French pigs live. That would be a sin, according to our priests.'
For a moment he was silent, then he went on, 'Still, I've got a soft spot for a man who puts up a good fight; and you certainly did that. So I'll give you a choice of deaths. Shall we burn you, skin you alive or shove a bayonet up your arse?'
His flesh again creeping with horror, Roger did not reply, gave another groan and closed his eyes.
Passing his great arms under Roger's body, the giant lifted him as though he were a child, carried him over to a battered chaise longue and laid him on it. Before turning away, he said, 'You've plenty of time to think it over. Alfonso, that's the chap you nearly strangled, wants to see you dance, so I said I'd give him an hour or two to pull himself together.'
The 'hour or two' seemed to Roger the longest he had spent in his life. He could almost have wished that his brain had not started to work again, as he could not keep his mind off the ghastly deaths of which he had been given a choice. Even being burnt seemed slightly less terrible than being flayed, and the bayonet should be quicker than either. But would it? He had known men suffering from an internal hemorrhage take several hours to die, and they always died writhing in agony.
Twilight fell and two candles stuck in bottles were lit. As darkness came, deep shadows obscured the far comers of the room. At length the door creaked. Alfonso the runt came through it. Both his hands were bandaged and there was a compress round his neck. Pausing beside Roger, he leered down at him, spat in his face, then walked over to O Diabo and said hoarsely:
'I'm a shade better now. Well enough, anyway, to enjoy seeing the French pig fried.'
Standing up, O Diabo came over to Roger and asked, 'What's it to be, Frenchie? The fire, the knife or a bloody hole in your guts?'
Roger was still in great pain, but the long lie on the chaise longue had recruited his strength a little. He felt that he would be able to stand up, and even walk a few steps. But he knew that he was utterly incapable of putting up another fight. Rallying his resources, he was able to reply clearly and firmly, 'You are not going to kill me in any of those ways; or in any other way. Because I am in a position to buy my life.'