was to strike; but he restrained himself, and in the
most contemptuous way said merely,

"Ah, the Reverend Gabriel Bennet!"

He had scarcely spoken when Gabriel fell upon him like a young lion.
So sudden and impetuous was his attack that for a moment Abel was
confounded. He gave way a little, and was well battered almost before
he could strike in return. Then his strong arms began to tell. He was
confident of victory, and calmer than his antagonist; but it was like
fighting a flame, so fierce and rapid were Gabriel's strokes.

Little Malacca looked on in amazement and terror. "Don't! don't!" cried
he, as he saw the faces of the fighters. "Oh, don't! Abel, you'll kill
him!" For Abel was now fully aroused. He was seriously hurt by Gabriel's
blows.

"Don't! there's somebody coming!" cried Little Malacca, with the tears in
his eyes, as the sound of a carriage was heard driving down the hill.

The combatants said nothing. The faces of both of them were bruised, and
the blood was flowing. Gabriel was clearly flagging; and Abel's face was
furious as he struck his heavy blows, under which the smaller boy
staggered, but did not yet succumb.

"Oh, please! please!" cried Little Malacca, imploringly, the tears
streaming down his face.

At that moment Abel Newt drew back, aimed a tremendous blow at Gabriel,
and delivered it with fearful force upon his head. The smaller boy
staggered, reeled, threw up his arms, and fell heavily forward into
the road, senseless.

"You've killed him! You've killed him!" sobbed Little Malacca, piteously,
kneeling down and bending over Gabriel.

Abel Newt stood bareheaded, frowning under his heavy hair, his hands
clenched, his face bruised and bleeding, his mouth sternly set as he
looked down upon his opponent. Suddenly he heard a sound close by
him--a half-smothered cry. He looked up. It was the Burt carriage, and
Hope Wayne was gazing in terror from the window.

CHAPTER VIII.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

Hiram was summoned to the door by a violent ringing of the bell. Visions
of apoplexy--of--in fact, of any thing that might befall a testy
gentleman of seventy-three, inclined to make incessant trips to the
West Indies--rushed to his mind as he rushed to the door. He opened
it in hot haste.

There stood Hope Wayne, pale, her eyes flashing, her hand ungloved. At
the foot of the steps was the carriage, and in the carriage sat Mrs.
Simcoe, with a bleeding boy's head resting upon her shoulde