But the only light in the room came from the fire, the three were interlaced, and Claude was young and agile as an eel: he evaded the first thrust, and the second.

The third went home in his shoulder, but desperate with pain he seized the hand that held the poniard, and clung to it; and before the man who had been the first to fall could regain his pike, or a third man who was present, but who was wounded, could drag himself, swearing horribly, to the spot, Marcadel fired from the stairs, and killed the wounded man.
The next instant with a yell of "Geneva!" he sprang on the others under cover of the smoke that filled the room.
The combat was still but of two to two; and without the guard-room but almost within arm's length, were a dozen Savoyards, headed by Picot the engineer; any one of whom might, by entering, turn the scale.

But the pistol-shot had come to the ears of the attacking party: that instant, guessing that they had allies within, they rallied and with loud cries returned to the attack.

Even while Marcadel having disposed of one more, stood over the struggling pair on the floor, doubting where to strike, the burghers burst a second time into the gateway--on which the guard-room opened--struck down Picot, and, hacking and hewing, with cries of "Porte Gagnee! Porte Gagnee!" bore the Savoyards back.
For the half of a minute the low-groined archway was a whirl of arms and steel and flame.

Half a dozen single combats were in progress at once; amid yells and groans, and the jar and clash of a score of weapons.