On guard! Again carte and tierce and lightning-like feint!
And, clear through, he had the strange impression that it was not his hand which was the blade's master, but that the blade was directing his hand, was stiffening or crooking his arm as he lunged to the attack, or estrapaded sideways, or feinted to parry clumsy, ineffectual blows and kicks. The hilt throbbed and quivered in his hand, while the point of the dagger danced a mad, swishing, triumphant saraband, there, in the reeking, sordid London night, with the gas jets hiccoughing sardonically, as if the weapon's ancient, turbulent, wicked soul had awakened from the clogging sleep of centuries.
“Gawd A'mighty!” yelled 'Enery. “The blighter's gone clean off 'is noodle!”
And he was the first to seek safety in flight, while the others followed as fast as they could, and disappeared, shouting and crying and cursing, in the direction of the East India Docks.
Hector was about to rush after them, the bloodstained dagger still flickering in front of him, when a golden ripple of laughter caused him to stop short and turn.
It was the girl. She was clutching her companion's arm in a paroxysm of merriment.
“I—oh—I am so sorry," she stammered as Hector, naked dagger in his right hand, reached her side. “I—I guess I am frightfully rude. I should thank you instead of laughing at you …”
“Jane!” said the man with her.
