, and dug at one another,
gashing their knuckles, and gnashing their teeth, frothing with one
another's blood, for Carne bit like a tiger. At length tough condition
and power of endurance got the mastery, and Twemlow planted his knee
upon the gasping breast of Carne.

"Surrend," he said, for his short breath could not fetch up the third
syllable; and Carne with a sign of surrender lay on his back, and
put his chin up, and shut his eyes as if he had fainted. Twemlow with
self-congratulation waited a little to recover breath, still keeping
his knee in the post of triumph, and pinning the foe's right arm to his
side. But the foe's left hand was free, and with the eyes still shut,
and a continuance of gasping, that left hand stole its way to the left
pocket, quietly drew forth the second pistol, pressed back the hammer on
the grass, and with a flash (both of eyes and of flint) fired into the
victor's forehead. The triumphant knee rolled off the chest, the body
swung over, as a log is rolled by the woodman's crowbar, and Twemlow's
back was on the grass, and his eyes were closed to the moonlight.

Carne scrambled up and shook himself, to be sure that all his limbs were
sound. "Ho, ho, ho!" he chuckled; "it is not so easy to beat me. Why,
who are you? Down with you, then!"

Lord Robert Chancton, a lad of about sixteen, the eldest son of
the Marquis, had lost his way inside the house, in trying to find a
short-cut to the door, and coming up after the pistol was fired, made a
very gallant rush at the enemy. With a blow of the butt Carne sent him
sprawling; then dashing among the shrubs and trees, in another minute
was in the saddle, and galloping towards the ancestral ruins.

As he struck into the main road through the grounds, Carne passed and
just missed by a turn of the bridle another horseman ascending the hill,
and urging a weary animal. The faces of the men shot past each other
within a short yard, and gaze met gaze; but neither in the dark flash
knew the other, for a big tree barred the moonlight. But Carne, in
another moment, thought that the man who had passed must be Scudamore,
probably fraught with hot tidings. And the thought was confirmed, as
he met two troopers riding as hard as ride they might; and then saw the
beacon on the headland flare. From point to point, and from height to
height, like a sprinkle of blood, the red lights ran; and the roar of
guns from the moon-lit sea made echo that they were ready. Then