ngs of the
matter; but with the bitter intensity born of personal wrongs and the
desire for personal vengeance. To Hamon, Martel represented the grievous
shadow on Rachel Carre's life. To Martel, Hamon represented Sercq and all
the contumely that had been heaped upon him there.

Their faces were set like rocks. Their teeth were clenched. They breathed
hard and quick--through their noses at first, but presently, and of
necessity, in short sharp gasps from the chest.

It was a great fight, with none to see it but the placid moon, and so
strong was her light that there seemed to be four men fighting, two above
and two below. And at times they all merged into a writhing confusion of
fierce pantings and snortings as of wild beasts, but for the most part they
fought in grim silence, broken only by the whistle of the wind through
their swollen lips, the light thud of their feet on the trampled ground,
and the grisly sound of fist on flesh. And they fought for love of Rachel
Carre, which the one had not been able to win and the other had not been
able to keep.

Martel was the bigger man, but Hamon's legs and arms had springs of hate in
them which more than counterbalanced. He was a temperate man too, and in
fine condition. He played his man with discretion, let him exhaust himself
to his heart's content, took with equanimity such blows as he could not
ward or avoid, and kept the temper of his hatred free from extravagance
till his time came.

Martel lost patience and wind. Unless he could end the matter quickly his
chance would be gone. He did his best to close and finish it, but his
opponent knew better, and avoided him warily. They had both received
punishment. Hamon took it for Rachel's sake, Martel for his sins. His brain
was becoming confused with Hamon's quick turns and shrewd blows, and he
could not see as clearly as at first. At times it seemed to him that there
were two men fighting him. He must end it while he had the strength, and he
bent to the task with desperate fury. Then, as he was rushing on his foe
like a bull, with all his hatred boiling in his head, all went suddenly
dark, and he was lying unconscious with his face on the trodden grass, and
George Hamon stood over him, with his fists still clenched, all battered
and bleeding, and breathing like a spent horse, but happier than he had
been for many a day.

Martel lay so still that a fear began to grow in Hamon that he was dead. He
had caught him deftly on