If he but dared remove his shoulders from the wall there would be a speedier end to him than as things were.
Not so, however, thought Garnache.

The cloak twisted about his left arm gave him some advantage, and he used it to the full.

He flicked the slack of it in the face of one, and followed it up by stabbing the fellow in the stomach before he could recover guard, whilst with another wave of that cloak he enmeshed the sword that shot readily into the opening he had left.
Madame cursed, and Fortunio echoed her imprecations.

The Seneschal gasped, his fears lost in amazement at so much valour and dexterity.
Garnache swung away from the wall now, and set his back to mademoiselle, determined to act upon her advice.

But even in that moment he asked himself for the first time since the commencement of that carnage--to what purpose?
His arms were growing heavy with fatigue, his mouth was parched, and great beads of perspiration stood upon his brow.