He threw his weight against it, and thrust it back till it was jammed hard once more against the doorposts, leaving the chair at his very feet.

The man beneath had recovered his sword by this, and again he sought to use it.

That was the end of him.

Again Garnache enmeshed it, kicked away the chair, or, rather, thrust it aside with his foot, stooped suddenly, and driving his blade under the table felt it sink into the body of his tormentor.
There was a groan and a spluttering cough, and then before Garnache could recover he heard mademoiselle crying out to him to beware.

The table was thrust suddenly forward almost on top of him; its edge caught his left shoulder, and sent him back a full yard, sprawling upon the ground.
To rise again, gasping for air--for the fall had shaken him--was the work of an instant.