In astonishment at seeing me, Bersonin recoiled;
Detchard jumped to his sword. I rushed madly at the Belgian: he gave
way before me, and I drove him up against the wall. He was no swordsman,
though he fought bravely, and in a moment he lay on the floor before
me. I turned--Detchard was not there. Faithful to his orders, he had
not risked a fight with me, but had rushed straight to the door of the
King's room, opened it and slammed it behind him. Even now he was at his
work inside.
And surely he would have killed the King, and perhaps me also, had it
not been for one devoted man who gave his life for the King. For when I
forced the door, the sight I saw was this: the King stood in the corner
of the room: broken by his sickness, he could do nothing; his fettered
hands moved uselessly up and down, and he was laughing horribly in
half-mad delirium. Detchard and the doctor were together in the middle
of the room; and the doctor had flung himself on the murderer, pinning
his hands to his sides for an instant. Then Detchard wrenched himself
free from the feeble grip, and, as I entered, drove his sword through
the hapless man. Then he turned on me, crying:
"At last!"
We were sword to sword. By blessed chance, neither he nor Bersonin had
been wearing their revolvers.
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