Two or three shots were fired at him without
effect; it was difficult to take aim in such a tossing chaos; then one
man, Delaney, sprung out at him with a clubbed musket. "At last!" we
heard Mohun say, laughing low and savagely in his beard as he stepped
one pace forward to meet his enemy. A blow that looked as if it might
have felled Behemoth was warded dexterously by the sabre, and, by a
quick turn of the wrist, its edge laid the Rapparee's face open in a
bright scarlet gash, extending from eyebrow to chin.
His comrades rushed over his body, furious, though somewhat disheartened
at seeing their champion come to grief; but they had to deal with a
blade that had kept half a dozen Hungarian swordsmen at bay, and, with
point or edge, it met them every where, magically. They were drawing
back, when Delaney, recovering from the first effects of his fearful
wound, crawled forward, gasping out curses that seemed floating on the
torrent of his rushing blood, and tried to grasp Mohun by the knees and
drag him down.
Pah! it was a sight to haunt one's dreams. (You might have filled my
glass, some of you, when you saw it was empty.)
Ralph looked down on him, and laughed again; his sabre whirled round
once, and cleared a wide circle; then, trampling down the wounded man by
main force, he drove the point through his throat, and pinned him to the
floor.
Pages:
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169