“Then I will take them, my lord,” said the servant.  Cantemir eyed him with no fondness and slipped the papers within his own bag.

Buckingham, watching them from his little cove in the rocks, caught a sound that made him start.  It was very distant and indistinct, yet he was quite certain some one was coming, and without further delay he cried out and drew his sword upon the man nearest him, which happened to be Anson.

The fellow used his sword fairly, but no match for his adversary.

Buckingham run him through before the Russian had regained his presence of mind.

As the unfortunate Anson fell, the Duke turned to Cantemir, who was separated from him by two prone figures and the chest.  The Count held the advantage and meant to use it by springing ahead into the opening.  There was no opportunity for Buckingham to either reach him or head him off.  Cantemir had caught up the filled bags and was smiling insolently across at him.  Buckingham was exasperated, not by the fellow’s triumph, but at his own helplessness to cut him off.  But there was no time to be lost; those other sounds were growing nearer.

The Duke made a bound toward the opening.  Cantemir, with an exultant laugh, sprung also toward the opening, but his laugh was turned into a yell of fear, as his leg was caught in a death-like grip by the servant he had kicked from the chest.

In an instant Buckingham was upon him and binding his arms tight behind; the poor, cowardly knave begging at every breath for his life.  He was completely undone with fright, his heart melted and his knees bent.

“And would it not be thy meed to run thee through also, for serving thy wounded knave with a kick? ’twas inhuman—­by God! ’tis a pity it takes a man with a soul to suffer the tortures of hell, for thou wilt never get thy deserts!” He looked down and saw the poor servant’s eyes raised to his pleadingly.  The Duke drew from his pocket a flask of wine and gave it to him; then gathered the bags that lay filled by the chest and hurriedly looked at their contents.  As he did so the wounded knave feebly raised his voice,—­

“I will be killed if I am found here.”

“Nay, a gentleman—­” and he cast a scornful glance at Cantemir,—­“would not kick thee when thou art down; say nothing of our most noble fathers putting to flight what small life thou hast in thee.  What is thy name?”

“Christopher,” came in weakened tones from his pallid lips.

In another moment the Duke was gone with his looted treasures.

He flew along at a most undignified gait, bearing his pack as a labourer.  His shoulders, unused to such burden, grew tired.  He began to wonder if the passage would never end.  He was growing more exhausted than he cared to own, and beside, he apprehended he was pursued.

At last he felt almost compelled to leave one of the bags behind, and stopped to think which, one he should leave.  Yet he was a-mind to carry them all if he broke his back; and beside, it was so dark he was unable to tell which was the more important.