Caterna has his hat shot
through, and it will be remembered that it is his village bridegroom's
hat, the gray beaver, with the long fur. He utters a gigantic maritime
oath, something about thunder and portholes, and then, taking a most
deliberate aim, quietly shoots stone dead the ruffian who has taken
such a liberty with his best headgear.
For ten minutes or so the battle continues with most alarming
alternations. The number of wounded on both sides increases, and the
issue is still doubtful. Faruskiar and Ghangir and the Mongols have
been driven back toward the precious van, which the Chinese guard have
not left for an instant. But two or three of them have been mortally
wounded, and their officer has just been killed by a bullet in the
head. And my hero does all that the most ardent courage can do for the
defence of the treasure of the Son of Heaven.
I am getting uneasy at the prolongation of the combat. It will continue
evidently as long as the chief of the band--a tall man with a black
beard--urges on his accomplices to the attack on the train. Up till now
he has escaped unhurt, and, in spite of all we can do, he is gaining
ground.
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