And Baron Weissschnitzerdoerfer?  Well, he is one of the most furious of us all.  He sweats blood and water, his fury carries him away at the risk of his being massacred.  Many times we have to rescue him.  These rails lifted, this train stopped, this attack in the open Gobi desert, the delays that it will all occasion, the mailboat lost at Tientsin, the voyage round the world spoiled, his plan come to grief before he had half accomplished it!  What a shock to his German self-esteem!

Faruskiar, my hero—­I cannot call him anything else—­displays extraordinary intrepidity, bearing himself the boldest in the struggle, and when he had exhausted his revolver, using his kandijar like a man who had often faced death and never feared it.

Already there were a few wounded on both sides, perhaps a few dead among the passengers who lay on the line.  I have had my shoulder grazed by a bullet, a simple scratch I have hardly noticed.  The Reverend Nathaniel Morse does not think that his sacred character compels him to cross his arms, and, from the way he works, one would not imagine that it was the first time he has handled firearms.  Caterna has his hat shot through, and it will be remembered that it is his village bridegroom’s hat, the gray beaver, with the long fur.  He utters a gigantic maritime oath, something about thunder and portholes, and then, taking a most deliberate aim, quietly shoots stone dead the ruffian who has taken such a liberty with his best headgear.

For ten minutes or so the battle continues with most alarming alternations.  The number of wounded on both sides increases, and the issue is still doubtful.  Faruskiar and Ghangir and the Mongols have been driven back toward the precious van, which the Chinese guard have not left for an instant.  But two or three of them have been mortally wounded, and their officer has just been killed by a bullet in the head.  And my hero does all that the most ardent courage can do for the defence of the treasure of the Son of Heaven.

I am getting uneasy at the prolongation of the combat.  It will continue evidently as long as the chief of the band—­a tall man with a black beard—­urges on his accomplices to the attack on the train.  Up till now he has escaped unhurt, and, in spite of all we can do, he is gaining ground.  Shall we be obliged to take refuge in the vans, as behind the walls of a fortress, to entrench ourselves, to fight until the last has succumbed?  And that will not be long, if we cannot stop the retrograde movement which is beginning on our side.

To the reports of the guns there are now added the cries of the women, who in their terror are running about the gangways, although Miss Bluett and Madame Caterna are trying to keep them inside the cars.  A few bullets have gone through the panels, and I am wondering if any of them have hit Kinko.

Major Noltitz comes near me and says:  “This is not going well.”

“No, it is not going well,” I reply, “and I am afraid the ammunition will give out.  We must settle their commander-in-chief.  Come, major—­”