Argosy, Vol. 1 (December 9, 1882) — page 242: what you’re looking at

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

THE QUEEN’S BODY GUARD. ~ } 236 followed by a confused hubbub from the direction of the chateau, and then there arose on the night air a woman’s shrill, piercing cry. CHAPTER XV.—THE Nicut ATTACK. THE sound would have been disconcerting enough at any time, but in Cot- trell’s case, it nearly paralyzed him with fear for the safety of the countess, and his sword arm dropped by his side. With a look of malignant triumph the count made a desperate lunge at his unguarded opponent, and there is no doubt the foul thrust would have then and there ended the career of Henry Cottrell but for the timely aid of Struthers, who like a flash leaped forward and with his own sword, which he held unsheathed in his hand, he struck up René’s blade, disarming him with the same blow. ‘You damnable scoundrel!” shouted the Englishman, beside himself with rage. All this had taken but a moment. “ To the chateau! ” cried Struthers, and he blew a shrill blast on his whistle. With an answering yell the tars came rushing up from the beach. At the same moment a score or more of desperate looking rufhans sprang up as if by magic, barring the way to the frantic Cottrell and the furious Struthers, who was raging like a wild bull. In an instant the opposing forces met. Both sides fought like demons, but nothing could stand before the terrible onslaught of Struthers and Cottrell, who fought with the spirit of desperation, backed up by the bulldog tenacity of the British sailors, who simply would not give an inch. suddenly the bandits turned and fled across the lawn. Two of them had been seen attempting to carry off the count. The sailors, thinking him one of their own party, went in hot pursuit, firing as they ran. At last, to save their own skins, the rufhans dropped the lieutenant, who lay where he fell, badly wounded by a chance shot. The dueling party and the sailors then rushed pell mell for the chateau, only to find they were too late. All was deathly quiet about the place. There was no sound or sight of the men who had been placed on guard. There was no doubt that they had been overpowered by a larger force. Cottrell dashed into the house, calling wildly for the countess, but there was no reply. Everything was in fearful disorder, showing that the chateau had been hastily ransacked. At the door leading to the countess’ private apartments lay the senseless form of Peters, with a great gash over his forehead. Cottrell looked eagerly through all the rooms, but there was no sign of Marie de Villiers. Poor Mrs. Peters crouched in one corner of the boudoir, moaning feebly, her poor wits all muddled by the frightful scene through which she had passed. As Cottrell looked about the room he suddenly espied his own photograph, the one he had mailed the countess when he answered her advertisement in the Times. It was prettily framed, and occupied the place of honor on her dressing table: and written across the front of it were the words, “ Henri snon brave.” GONG OOO UN ceo