Wogan had not recovered from his lunge; the jerk at the cloak threw him off his balance, his legs slipped forward under him, in another moment he would have come crashing down the stairs upon his back, and at the bottom of the flight there stood one man absolutely unharmed supporting his comrade who had been wounded in the throat.

Wogan felt the jerk, understood the danger, and saw its remedy at the same instant.

He did not resist the impetus, he threw his body into it, he sprang from the stairs forwards, tearing his cloak from the leader's hands, he sprang across the leader, across the soldier who had fired at him, and he dropped with all his weight into the arms of the third man with the pierced throat.

The blood poured out from the wound over Wogan's face and breast in a blinding jet.

The fellow uttered one choking cry and reeling back carried the comrade who supported him against the balustrade at the turn of the stairs.