intervene, there was just a chance that I might hold him off long enough for Sapten to overcome the defenders—if I wasn't a swordsman of his brilliance, I was at least as good as the master-at-arms of the 11th Hussars could make me, and I was strong enough, while Rudi must be weakened by the smash on the head I had given him.
Perhaps the thought showed in my face, for he laughed again and took a cut at me.
'You can have your choice of how you die,' jeers he. 'A nice thrust? Or a good backhand cut—it can take a head off very pretty, as I'm sure you know!'
And with that he came in, foot and hand, and had me fighting for my life as I fell back across the hall. His blade was everywhere, now darting at my face, now at my chest; now slashing at my left flank, now at my head— how I parried those thrusts and sweeps is beyond me, for he was faster than any man I'd ever met, and his wrist was like a steel spring. He drove me back to the foot of the stairs and then dropped his point, laughing, while he glanced towards the main gate, where the pistols were cracking away, and the smoke was drifting back like mist into the hall.
'Stand to 'em, Kraftstein!' he shouted. 'What, they're only a pack of ploughmen! Fire away, boys! Sweep 'em into the lake!'
He waved his sabre in encouragement, and I seized the chance to take a wild slash at his head. By God, I nearly had him, too, but his point was up in the nick of time, and then he was driving in at me again, snarling and thrusting with such speed that I had to duck under his blade and run for it.
'Stand and fight, damn you!' cries he, coming after me. 'Are you all white-livered, you damned British? Stand and fight!'
'What for?' I shouted. 'So that you can show off your sabrework, you foreign mountebank? Come and get me if you're so bloody clever! Come on!'
It was the last thing I'd have thought of saying to anybody, normally, but I knew what I was doing. I'd noticed, as he turned to follow me, that he had staggered a little, and as he stood now, poised to lunge, he was swaying unsteadily from side to side. He was groggy from his wound, and tiring, too; for all his speed and skill he wasn't as strong a man as I. If I could lure him away from the hall, away from the chance to call in his men, I might be able to exhaust him sufficiently to disable or kill him; at least I might hold him in play until Sapten and his damned dilatory Danes came on the scene. So I fell back towards the dungeon doorway, calling him an Austrian pimp, a bedroom bravo, a Heidelberg whoremaster, and anything else that came to mind.
Possibly he didn't need this kind of encouragement; it only seemed to amuse him, but he came after me hard enough, stamp-stamp-stamp, with arm and sabre straight as a lance when he lunged. I retreated along the passage nimbly, keeping him at full stretch, and got my footing on the steps. After that it was easier, for whoever had built the steps had known his business; they spiralled down to the right, so that I could fight with the wall to cover my open flank, while his was exposed.
'You can't run forever,' cries he, cutting back-handed.
'So they told Wellington,' says I, taking it on my hilt. 'Why didn't you learn to fence properly, you opera- house buffoon?'
'Sticks and stones,' laughs he. 'We'll have room enough in a moment, and see how well you can fence without a wall to burrow under.'
He came down the stairs at a run, thrusting close to the wall, and I had to jump away and scramble downwards for dear life. He was at my back on the instant, but I won clear with a couple of swinging cuts and went headlong down the steps, stumbling at the bottom and only regaining my balance just in time as he followed me into the open.
'Close thing that time, play-actor,' says he, pausing to brush the hair out of his eyes. He was breathing heavy, but so was I; if he didn't tire soon I was done for. He came at me slowly, circling his point warily, and then sprang, clash-clash, and I fell back before him. We were in the low cloister now, with plenty of pillars for me to dodge round, but try as I might I found him forcing me back towards the lighted arch leading to the guardroom and Carl Gustaf's cell. He was fighting at full pitch, his point leaping at me like quicksilver, and it was all I could do to keep my skin intact as he drove me through into the lighted area.
'Not much farther to run now,' says he. 'D'ye know any prayers, you English coward?'
I was labouring too hard to answer him with a taunt of my own; the sweat was coming off me like water, and my right wrist was aching damnably. But he was almost spent, too; as he cut at me and missed he staggered, and in desperation I tried the old Flashman triple pass—a sudden thrust at the face, a tremendous kick at his essentials, and a full-blooded downward cut. But where I had been to school, Rudi had graduated with honours; he sidestepped thrust and kick, and if I hadn't postponed my intended cut in favour of an original parry—a blind sideways sweep accompanied by a squeal of alarm—he would have had me. As it was his point raked my left forearm before I could get out of range. He paused, panting, to jeer at me.
'So that's the way gentlemen fight in England, is it?' says he. 'No wonder you win your wars.'
'You should talk, you back-stabbing guttersnipe.' I was scared sick at the narrowness of my escape, and glad of the respite. 'When did you last fight fair?'
'Let's see, now,' says he, falling on guard again and trying another thrust, 'It would be '45, I think, or '46—I was young then. But I was never as crude as you—see now.'
And making a play at my head he suddenly spat straight at me, and as I hesitated in astonishment he tried to run me through, but his tiredness betrayed him, and his point went wide.
'Now who's a gentleman?' I shouted, but his only answer was a laugh and a sudden rush that drove me back almost to the grille of Carl Gustaf's cell. One backward glance I had to take—God, the grille door was open, and I went through it like a jack rabbit, slamming it as he came rushing after. He got a foot in, and we heaved and cursed at each other. My weight must have told, but suddenly there was a shout behind me, and something crashed against the bars close to my head. It was a pewter pot—that damned Carl Gustaf was not only still alive but hurling his furniture at me. I must have relaxed instinctively, for Rudi forced the door back, and I went reeling into the middle of the chamber just as the royal idiot behind me let fly with a stool, which fortunately missed.
'I'm on your side, you crazy bastard!' I shouted. 'Throw them at him!'
But he had nothing left now but his lamp, and he didn't apparently fancy leaving us in the dark; he stood staring while Rudi rushed me, slashing for all he was worth. I hewed desperately back; the sabres clanged hilt to hilt, and we grappled, kicking and tearing at each other until he broke free. I caught him a cut on the left shoulder, and he swore foully and sprang into the attack again.
'You'll go together, then!' he shouted, and drove me back across the cell, His face and shoulder were bleeding, he was all in, but he laughed in my face as he closed in for the kill.
'This way! This way!' bawls Carl Gustaf. 'To me, man!'
I couldn't have done it, not for a kingdom; I could feel my arm failing before Starnberg's cuts. One I stopped a bare inch from my face, and lurched back; his arm straightened for the thrust—and then in a moment he stopped dead, his head turning towards the grille, as a shot sounded from the stairs.
'Help!' yelled Carl Gustaf. 'Quickly! This way!'
Rudi swore and sprang back to the grille door; there was the sound of shouting and feet clattering on the steps. He waited only an instant, and glanced back at me.
'Another time, damn you,' he cried. 'Au revoir, your highnesses! ', and he swung his sabre once and let it fly at me, whirling end over end. It sailed over my head, ringing on the stones, but I had started back instinctively, my feet slipped out from under me, and I came crashing down on the flags. Christ! they weren't level! I was sliding backwards, and in a moment of paralysing horror I remembered the funnel and that ghastly pit at its base. I heard Carl Gustaf's cry of warning too late and Rudi's exultant yell of laughter; they seemed to slide upwards out of my sight as I clawed frantically at the slippery stone. I couldn't stop myself; my foot caught for an instant and I slewed round sprawling, helpless as a cod on a fishmonger's slab. Now I was sliding head first; I had an instant's glimpse of that hellish black hole as I slithered towards it, than my head was over the void, my arms were flailing empty air, and I shot over the lip, screaming, into the depths. Jesus, down the drain, went through my mind as I hurtled headlong towards certain death.
The pipe ran at an angle; my shoulders, hips and knees crashed against its sides as I rushed into the inky blackness. For sheer horror I have known nothing to come near it, for this without doubt was the end—the frightful, unspeakable finish; I was being shot into the bowels of hell beyond all hope, into eternal dark. Down I went, the ghastly wail of my own screams in my ears, and ever down, down, and then with shattering force I was plunged into icy water, plummeting through it like a stone until it gradually drew me to a halt, and I felt myself rising.
