The colonel drew a large handkerchief, and tossed it to a soldier saying:
“Blindfold him, then. As a soldier, shall the outlaw die,” he said, sarcastically.
Two soldiers, one bearing a musket, now stepped forward to blindfold the Night-Hawk’s black eyes. One stepped behind him and was in the act of drawing the kerchief into position, when Funk’s hands left his side. They shot upward like rockets, and the soldier who stood before him with bayoneted gun was hurled backward, like the covering of an exploding rocket. His musket was wrenched from his hand at the same moment, and the blindfolder was brained with the stock before anybody could realize the terrible state of affairs.
Roy Funk was free, with a musket in his hand!
Like a tiger he leaped upon Colonel O’Neill, who retreated a step, and threw up his sword to ward off the glistening bayonet.
But as well he might have tried to stop the descent of an avalanche with a straw.
The bayonet came down upon his breast with giant force, and the next instant he staggered back with the shining steel buried among his vitals!
“There, take that, colonel,” cried Royal Funk, as he sent the bayonet home, and then he hurled to the earth the only soldier who had presence of mind enough to attempt to impede his further progress.
“Hurrah! Roy Funk is free again! Another band of Night-Hawks shall gather at his call, and woe to the Briton who crosses his path then.”
He turned on his heel with the last word, and darted away.