underneath, so weighed down that he could not for the moment move a
hand toward his pistol.

Half-stifled by the reek of unwashed flesh, he heard broken phrases
growled in voices hoarse with effort and excitement:

"The knife!" ... "Hold him!" ... "Stand clear and let me--!" ... "The
knife!"

Struggling madly, he worked a leg free and kicked with all his might.
One of his assailants howled aloud and fell back to nurse a broken
shin. Two others scrambled out of the way, leaving one to pin him down
with knees upon his chest, another to wield the knife.

Staring eyes caught a warning gleam on descending steel. Duchemin
squirmed frantically to one side, and felt cold metal kiss the skin
over his ribs as the blade penetrated his clothing, close under the
armpit.

Before the man with the knife could strike again, Duchemin, roused to a
mightier effort, threw off the ruffian on his chest, got on his knees
and, raining blows right and left as the others closed in again,
somehow managed to scramble to his feet.

Fist-work told. For an instant he stood quite free, the centre of a
circle of uncertain assassins whose cowardice gave him time to whip out
his pistol. But before he could level it a man was on his back, his
wrist was seized and the weapon twisted from his grasp.

A cry of triumph was echoed by exclamations of alarm as, disarmed,