This would have been heavy odds in an open field, but it was not so formidable in a small room almost dark with smoke.

Above all, the troopers were fighting for pay; we were fighting for life.
The four men charged us fiercely, and while we were fighting just inside the room, Frances worked her way from behind our antagonists toward the battered door and was about to make her escape when one of the king's men struck her a cowardly blow with the hilt of his sword, and she fell to the floor at the head of the stairs.
"You and Hamilton take her to the boat," cried De Grammont, speaking to me, but continuing to fence, as though by instinct.

"I'll hold the door till you call; then I'll run.

The next best thing to fighting is running." I regretted the use of Hamilton's name, as it would betray his presence, if overheard, which otherwise would not have been suspected, all of us being well masked.

But I had no time to waste in vain regrets, so George and I lifted Frances from the floor and helped her down to the boat, leaving De Grammont just outside the battered door, defending himself nobly against four armed men and keeping them inside the king's closet.
He seemed to be enjoying himself, for he was laughing, bowing, parrying, and thrusting, as though he were at a frolic rather than a fight.