The Sultan's Daughter by Dennis Wheatley Page B

While the sabre was still pointing skyward Roger fired. The bullet struck theman in the right shoulder. With a howl of pain he dropped his arm and the sabre slipped from his grasp. As he staggered away, the second man came at Roger with a short sword. Roger fired his second barrel, but missed. Dodging the man’s thrust, he ran in and smashed the fist that held the pistol with all his force into his antagonist’s face. He, too, dropped his weapon, clapped his hands to his broken nose and bleeding mouth, then lurched away moaning.
    For a moment it seemed that Roger would yet escape capture but, even as he stood there, his chest heaving painfully from his efforts, he caught the sound of more thudding foot-falls fast approaching. It flashed upon him then that the two men he had rendered
hors de combat
must be only the first to appear of a second patrol stationed further along the coast. It must have been alerted by the sound of firing as the first patrol attacked the boat.
    Desperately, he looked about him. To run back the way he had come meant certain capture. The cliff was much too high to scale and it shut him off from attempting to escape inland. But there was still the sea. Sobbing for breath he swung about, pounded down the slope, splashed through the shallows, then flung himself headlong into the water.
    It was icy. As his head came up above the surf his heart contracted in a spasm and a shudder ran through him. But, still almost entirely submerged, he stumbled and thrust his way out until, with only his head above water, his feet could just touch the sea-bed.
    He had decided to take the plunge on a sudden inspiration that he might get away by swimming out to the sloop. But he had temporarily overlooked the fact that it was early February. As he stood there, up to his neck in the sea, he knew that had he attempted to swim the Channel his chances of success would have been no more hopeless. Strong swimmer though he was even if he could have wriggled out of his heavy travelling coat and rid himself of his boots the cold would have numbed him into insensibility before he had swum a hundred yards.
    Yet he still had one faint hope. Racked with pain as they were, the two men he had wounded might not have seen which way he had gone. If so, the patrol would divide tosearch the shore for him in both directions. Then, if he could stand the cold long enough, he might crawl out and find a hiding place under the cliff until the coast was clear of his enemies. To fortify himself against the ordeal he foresaw he got out his flask of brandy and took a long pull from it. The spirit coursed through his veins like fire, yet gave him only temporary relief from the deadly chill.
    And his hope proved vain. The man he had shot in the shoulder had seen him run off and splash into the sea. As the main body of the patrol came up he began shouting to them, and Roger could plainly hear him giving an account of what had happened. In the faint starlight he could just make out the group of figures as it split up, and the men spread themselves along the shore, evidently peering seaward in an endeavour to spot him.
    With only his head above water, and against the black background of the sea, he knew that it would prove impossible for them to do so. But his lips were blue with cold and shudders ran through him every moment. He felt certain now that if his body remained for another five minutes in the grip of those icy waters he would die there. Miserably he admitted to himself that there was nothing for it but to surrender, so he began to wade ashore.
    As soon as his chest was above the level of the sea, he feebly waved an arm and cried in French, ‘Don’t shoot! I give myself up to you.’
    No sooner had he spoken the words than he realised that, taken by surprise, he had committed an appalling blunder. Instead of firing his pistol when attacked, those were the very words he should have used, adding, ‘I am a Frenchman, and have just