Close to the wall, a pistol in his left hand and an upraised
stand-bag in his right, stood "Le Balafre!" His eyes gleamed savagely
in the light of the moon and his teeth were bared in that fearful
animal snarl. But he had not seen me.
Inch by inch I thrust my pistol forward, the barrel raised sharply. I
could not be sure of my aim, of course, nor had I time to judge it
carefully.
I fired.
The bullet was meant for his right wrist, but it struck him in the
fleshy part of his arm. Uttering a ferocious cry he leapt back,
dropped his pistol--and perceiving me as I sprang to my feet, lashed
at my head with the sand-bag. I raised my left arm to guard my skull
and sustained the full force of the blow upon it.
I staggered back against the wall, and my own pistol was knocked from
my grasp. My left arm was temporarily useless and the man of the scar
was deprived of the use of his right. _Pardieu!_ I had the better
chance!
He hurled himself upon me.
Instantly he recovered the advantage, for he grasped me by the throat
with his left hand--and, _nom d'un nom!_ what a grip he had! Flat
against the wall he held me, and began, his teeth bared in that
fearful grin, to crush the life from me.
To such an attack there was only one counter. I kicked him savagely--
and that death-grip relaxed. I writhed, twisted--and was free! As I
regained my freedom I struck up at him, and by great good fortune
caught him upon the point of the jaw.
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