But at this moment, at a signal from their chief, the dark-browed, swarthy seamen laid their rude hands upon the sacred form of the deliverer herself, and rapidly hurried both damsels towards the gig. With one wild look to heaven, one frantic gesture of wrath, despair, and abandonment, Antonia Frankston betook herself to one of the best weapons in her sex’s armoury, and shrieked till every rock and tree within a mile of Morahmee echoed again. ‘_Carambo!_’ said one of the men, ‘we shall have half Sydney here before we are clear with these shrieking senoritas; have you no muffler for her cursed mouth?’ ‘_Paciencia_, Diego!’ said the Count, ‘harm her not. A few minutes will suffice—and then——’ But before further infraction of the liberty of the subject could be carried out, Miss Frankston had exhibited for some moments the full force of a very vigorous pair of lungs. The party had nearly reached the little pier, whence so many joyous bands had taken the water, when a man came crashing through the shrubbery, and rushed furiously at Von Schätterheims. ‘Stand back, Neuchamp!’ shouted the Count, levelling a revolver, ‘or you die.’ ‘Scoundrel and pirate that you are,’ said Ernest, facing him with steady eye, ‘fire! do your worst. By heaven, I will tear you limb from limb if you do not instantly order your ruffians to desist.’ This rather melodramatic threat was used by Mr. Neuchamp, who was cool enough to take in the precise aspect of the fray at a glance, more with the intention of gaining time than of intimidating five armed men. He was eminently at a disadvantage as matters stood. He was, so to speak, at the Count’s mercy, being at the wrong end of his revolver, and that experienced soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, or whatever, indeed, in time past might have been his true designation, was far too wary to permit him a chance of closing. The sailors in whose grasp were Antonia and her guest had drawn their knives, and were prepared for an affray _à l’outrance_. The two seamen in the boat carried sheath-knives at least. He could not but admit to himself, grinding his teeth the while, that he had the hazard of beholding his love torn from her home by the rude hands of lawless men, or of dying vainly in her defence. To this latter alternative, could it but avert her peril, he was willing, nay anxious, to yield himself. But if—if only a short respite could be gained—even now—the issue was uncertain. His resolution was taken. ‘Stop your men, Count, while we parley,’ he said, ‘or, by the God above us, you shall shoot me down the next second, and I tear the false heart out of your breast, if you miss. Choose!’ And he stepped forward in the face of the levelled weapon.