Then with the roar of a trapped
lion, he turned, but the door had slammed behind him, and Black
Simon, with grim figure and sardonic face, stood between.
The Butcher looked round him helplessly, for he was unarmed save
for his dagger. Then his eyes fell upon Nigel's roses.
"You are a gentleman of coat-armor," he cried. "I surrender
myself to you."
"I will not take your surrender, you black villain," said Nigel.
"Draw and defend yourself. Simon, give him your sword."
"Nay, this is madness," said the blunt man-at-arms. "Why should I
give the wasp a sting?"
"Give it him, I say. I cannot kill him in cold blood."
"But I can!" yelled Aylward, who had crept up from the fire.
"Come, comrades! By these ten finger-bones! has he not taught us
how cold blood should be warmed?"
Like a pack of wolves they were on him, and he clanged upon the
floor with a dozen frenzied naked figures clutching and clinging
above him. In vain Nigel tried to pull them off. They were mad
with rage, these tortured starving men, their eyes fixed and
glaring, their hair on end, their teeth gnashing with fury, while
they tore at the howling, writhing man. Then with a rattle and
clatter they pulled him across the room by his two ankles and
dragged him into the fire.
Nigel shuddered and turned away his eyes as he saw the brazen
figure roll out and stagger to his knees, only to be hurled once
more into the heart of the blaze.
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