mercenaries, bearing torches. The glare smote the master in the eyes,
and partly dazzled him. He fought valiantly, but he was forced to give
way. A chance thrust, however, severed the cords of his opponent's
mask.

"You?"

There was a gurgling sound, a coughing, and the elder sank to his
knees, rolled upon his side, and became still. The man in the grey
cloak, holding the mask to his face, rushed down the grand staircase,
sweeping aside all those who barred his path. He seemed possessed with
strength and courage Homeric; odds were nothing. With a back
hand-swing of his arm he broke one head; he smashed a face with the
pommel; caught another by the throat and flung him headlong. In a
moment he was out of the door. Down the steps he dashed, through the
gate, thence into the street, a mob yelling at his heels. The light
from the torches splashed him. A sharp gust of wind nearly tore the
mask from his fingers. As he caught it, he ran full into a priest.

"Out of the way, then, curse you!"

Before the astonished priest, who was a young man, could rise from the
pavement where the impact had sent him sprawling, the assailant had
disappeared in the alley. He gained the door of the low tavern, flung
it open, pushed by every one, upsetting several, all the while the
bloody rapier in one hand and the mask held in place by the other. The
astonished inmates of the tavern saw him leap like a huge bird and
vanish through one of the windows, carrying the sash with him. But a
nail caught the grey cloak, and it fluttered back to the floor. Scarce
a moment had passed when the pursuers crowded in. When questioned, the