The falling sword swerved from its fatal aim, only striking the arm of the merchant, cutting through the coat and into the flesh.

As the fat fellow lay struggling on his back like a beetle, Anton drew out his trusty pistols, and cried, with the inspiration of despair, "Back, you rascals, or I shoot him dead!" This rapid diversion had more effect than could reasonably have been hoped; the people that the landlord had collected around him, and who, after all, were only working for his interest, fell back, while half a dozen wagoners, with bars of iron and other implements of the kind, crowded round the merchant, and now screamed as loudly as the other party had done a short time before, declaring that no harm should happen to the gentleman and his wagons.

The merchant cried, "Drive these strangers out!" and, taking up the sword that the landlord had dropped, at the head of his adherents stormed the latter's abettors, and drove them through the house.

The most stiff-necked of them tried to intrench themselves in the bar, but one after the other was cast out, roaring and cursing the while.

The door was then locked, and the merchant hastened back to the court-yard, and found Anton still kneeling by the incorrigible landlord to prevent him from rising.