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.
On the throne sat that decrepit, hateful figure, Mr. Justice Supreme. There sat also every one of the Servants who had witnessed the examinations, earlier in the day, including Mr. Mercy, looking depressed but interested. Cleverest was there, too, standing beside his uncle.
Then Trenmore spoke, with the great voice of an Angel of Doom.
'You devils below there!' he shouted. 'Take heed to my words! I've a warning to give you.'
There came a deafening roar behind him. Glancing over his shoulder he saw a billowing, greenish cloud issuing from the balcony. It cleared slowly, revealing a pair of explosion-shattered doors, sagging from their hinges. A crowd of his enemies poured through the aperture and on to the balcony. At the rail, however, they paused, glaring across at Trenmore.
'Sword o' Battle,' he murmured softly, 'do you not wish they may try to cross on our bridge? Do you not hope it, little sword?'
Between his men the Quickest pushed his way to the railing. He had secured another revolver and he leveled it at Trenmore. 'Surrender, my man, or you'll be shot where you stand!' came his terse command.
'Surrender is it? And why don't you shoot me, then? Sure, am I not a condemned man, chief, darling?'
'His Supremity has instructed me to grant you a reprieve if you will surrender. There has already been damage enough done.'
Said Trenmore, 'I'll wager my life against your marksmanship, chief. Shoot now! And see if you can kill Terence Trenmore before he can strike the bell!' Once more he heaved up the sword.
The chief turned pale and lowered his own weapon. 'You are a madman!' he shouted. 'Strike that bell and your friends and you will perish with the rest of us!'
'A quick death and a happy one! In dying we'll rid the earth of its worst scum, if all they say is true. No, no, little man. I'll not come over to you. And if you shoot, you'll strike the bell yourself in a small way-or cause me to do it in earnest. I've no time to be exchanging pleasantries. I'll just guard my back and go on with my business.'
He brought the sword crashing down on the frail bridge. With a splintering sound it broke loose. Trenmore's end fell to the floor, carrying with it some of the scaffolding. Trenmore barely saved himself from going down. Regaining his footing neatly, he waved a hand at the furious chief and climbed around the bell to a place where it partly shielded him from the balcony. Thence he could face his more important enemies on the dais.
'You'll pardon me,' he shouted. 'There was a small interruption. Now, tell me, you old scoundrel on the throne there, have I the upper hand, or have I not?'
CHAPTER 19: TRENMORE STRIKES
IT was Cleverest who replied, scornfully and with no sign of fear.
'You fool,' he cried, 'strike the bell if you like. Do you think we care for that? We are waiting for you to be brought down here to die with these other vermin!'
'And is that the way you regard it?' inquired Trenmore with a laugh, but his heart sank. He was bluffing on a large and glorious scale, and if the bluff was to be called, he might as well leap from his place and be done with it. However, the Irishman was a firm believer in the motto: Fight to a finish whatever the odds! 'Then I'll strike and settle the matter,' he added defiantly.
Just beyond where he stood, the Red Bell was naked of scaffolding. He swung up the sword for a great blow. But there was at least one man in the hall whose faith was equal to that of the Numbers themselves. That man was Mr. Justice Supreme, High Servant of Penn.
As the sword flashed up, the old man leaped from his chair. With galvanic energy and upraised, clawlike hands, he stumbled to the edge of the dais. 'No, no, no!' he shrieked. 'Don't strike! For mercy's sake don't strike the bell; don't strike-'
The words died on his lips. The yellow claws clutched at his heart and he flung back his head, mouth open. As his knees sagged under him, Cleverest barely saved his uncle from falling to the pavement below. Holding the
