And I felt very useless and foolish as I stood there to bide the assault with only a bit of guardless knife in my hand.
Suddenly, however, there came a diversion.
"Crash !" went a gun in my very ear.

Flame, smoke--much of both--and the stifling smell of sulphur.

Jorian had fired at the face of the pop-gun knave.

That putty-white countenance had a crimson plash on it ere it vanished.

Then came back to us a scream of dreadful agony and the sound of a heavy fall outside.
"End of act the first! The Wicked Angels--hum, hum--go to hell! All in the day's work!" cried Jorian, cheerily, recharging his pistolet and driving home the wadding as he spoke.
It may well be imagined that during our encounter with the assailants of the candle, whose transverse fire had so nearly finished me, the company out in the great kitchen had not been content to lie snoring on their backs.