“In the rear, on the left.”
“Can you find the electric switch?”
The Colonel drew his revolver and stepped quickly inside; he knew there was a row of buttons near the library door, and he found them readily. With a single motion he pushed them in, and every chandelier and side-light in the entire lower floor sprang to life—illuminating rooms, solitary and undisturbed.
Over the mantel in the library hung a pair of beautiful old duelling rapiers, and the Archduke snatched one down and tried its balance; then took the other and handed it to Bernheim.
“Take it, man,” he said, as the Colonel touched his own sword; “take it, it’s worth an armory of those; its reach alone may save your life, if we are crowded.” He made a pass in the air and laughed—it was sweet any time to feel the hilt of such a weapon, but now it was doubly sweet, with danger ahead and the odds he knew not what. He pointed upward.
“Come along,” he said—“now for the next floor and the clash of steel.”
But Bernheim shook his head.
“I pray you, my lord, be prudent,” he urged—“remember, to us you are the King.”
Faintly, from somewhere above, the cry came—weak and suppressed, but audible.
“Help! oh help!”