His first attention was given to the man with Frances.

He struck him with the hilt of his sword, stunning him for the moment, but the fellow soon recovered, and the three ruffians drew their blades.
Finding himself assailed from all quarters, George made a dash for a corner of the room, where his back and flank were protected.

In telling me of it afterward, Frances said that she and Nelly were so badly frightened that they could neither move nor scream.

The deafening noise of the clashing swords, the tramping of the heavy boots on the bare oak floor, the blasphemous oaths of the drunken ruffians, and the stunning din of battle almost deprived her of consciousness.
After a time all that she could see was Hamilton's face behind the curtain of flashing swords, and all that she could hear, even above the din, was his heavy breathing.

He had thrown off his doublet and was fighting in his shirt sleeves, desperately, and it seemed hopelessly.
Soon the blood began to stream down his face, and the white linen of his shirt was covered with red blotches.
No man can stand long against odds of three to one, but, for what seemed a very long time to Frances, Hamilton defended himself gallantly, and seemed to be giving back as much as he received.
But the fight could not have lasted much longer, and sooner or later, George would have been cut to pieces, had not little Betty entered the fray.