The Inn of the Winged God
Georges now seemed possessed of seven devils, all a-thirst for the soul of O'Rourke. He flew at him, abruptly, without the least warning, like a whirlwind. O'Rourke was beaten back a dozen yards in as many seconds. There was no killing time about the present combat—O'Rourke well knew.
And he felt himself steadily failing. Once he slipped and all but went to his knees, and when he recovered was trembling in every limb like an aspen leaf. And, again, he blundered into a chair and sent it crashing to the floor; when it seemed ages ere he managed to disentangle his feet from its rounds—seemed the longer since the sword of Prince Georges quivered over him like the wrath of a just God, relentless and terrible.
He had one last hope—to get himself in a corner, with his back to the wall, and stand Monsieur le Prince off to the bitter end. At least, he prayed he might get in one good blow before—that end. And so he made for the corner nearest him.
In the end he gained it against odds—for Prince Georges, divined his purpose and did his utmost to thwart it. But when at last the Irishman had gained this slight advantage, his heart sank within him; Georges closed fearlessly, not keeping at sword's length, as O'Rourke had trusted he might.
O'Rourke was flattened, fairly, against that wall. He fought with desperate cunning, but ever more feebly. "God!" he cried once, between clinched teeth. "Could I but touch him!"
Georges heard, grinning maliciously.
"Never, fortune hunter!" he returned, redoubling his efforts. "You may well pray—"
What else he said O'Rourke never knew, for at that instant
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