Commodore Junk — page 268: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE ASSASSINS. 261 —on all—for the wrongs—for the death—loved—strength to fight down this weakness—to be—selfi—for strength—for strength—to live—revenge—death.” The last word of these agonised utterances was still quiver- ing upon the air as if it had been torn from the speaker’s breast, when the dimly-seen doorway was suddenly darkened, and there was a quick movement. Humphrey Armstrong’s position was one which enabled him, faint as was the light, to see everything—the draped coffin, the kneeling figure bent over. it prostrate in agony of spirit, and a great crouching form stealing softly behind as if gathering for a spring. Was it Bart? No; and the doorway was again darkened, and he saw that two more men were there. Friends? Attendants? No. There was the dull gleam of steel uplifted by the figure bending over the buccaneer. Assassination without doubt. The moment of peril had come, lightly as it had been treated, and, stirred to the heart by the treachery and horror of the deed intended, Humphrey sprang from his place of concealment, struck the buccaneer’s assailant full in the chest, and they rolled over together on the temple floor. “‘ Quick, lads, help!” shouted the man whom Humphrey had seized, and his companions rushed in, for a general mélée to ensue at terrible disadvantage, for the assailants were armed with knives, and those they assailed defenceless as to weapons other than those nature had supplied. _ Humphrey knew this to his cost in the quick struggle which ensued. He had writhed round as he struggled with the would-be murderer, and contrived to get uppermost, when a keen sense of pain, as ot a red-hot wire passing through one of his arms, made him lvosen his hold for a moment, and the next he was dashed back. Gomicbooks —_)