Truxton King's chance to pay his debt to Vos Engo came after one of the fiercest, most determined charges. The young Count, who had transferred his charges from the old tower to the strong north wing of the Castle, had been fighting desperately in the front rank for some time. His weakness seemed to have disappeared entirely. As the foe fell back in the face of the desperate resistance, Vos Engo sprang down the steps and rushed after them, calling others to join him in the attempt to complete the rout. Near the edge of the terrace he stopped. His leg gave way under him and he fell to the ground. Truxton saw him fall.
He leaped over the low balustrade, dropping his hot rifle, and dashed across the terrace to his rival's assistance. A hundred men shot at him. Vos Engo was trying to get to his feet, his hand upon his thigh; he was groaning with pain.
"It's my turn," shouted the American. "I'll square it up if I can. Then we're even!"
He seized the wounded man in his strong arms, threw him over his shoulder and staggered toward the steps.
"Release me, damn you!" shrieked Vos Engo, striking his rescuer in the face with his fist.
"I'm saving you for another day," said King as he dropped behind the balustrade, with his burden safe. A wild cheer went up from the lips of the defenders, scornful howls from the enemy.
"I pray God it may be deferred until I am capable of defending myself," groaned Vos Engo, glaring at the other with implacable hatred in his eyes.
"You might pray for my preservation, too, while you're at it," said Truxton, as he crept away to regain his rifle.
There were other witnesses to Truxton's rash act. In a lofty window of the north wing crouched a white-faced girl and a grim old man. The latter held a rifle in his tense though feeble hands. They had been there for ten minutes or longer, watching the battle from their eerie place of security. Now and then the old man would sight his rifle and fire. A groan of anger and dismay escaped his lips after each attempt to send his bullet to the spot intended. The girl who crouched beside him was there to designate a certain figure in the ever-changing mass of humanity on the bloody parade ground. Her clear eyes sought for and found Marlanx; her unwavering finger pointed him out to the old marksman.
She saw Vos Engo fall. Then a tall, well-known figure sprang into view, dashing toward her wounded lover. Her heart stopped beating. The blood rushed to her eyes. Everything before her turned red--a horrid, blurring red. With her hands to her temples, she leaned far over the window ledge and screamed--screamed words that would have filled Truxton King with an endless joy could he have heard them above the rattle of the rifles.