"I struggled furiously, and tried to draw my sword, but the Indian had severed the belt with his knife. I fought for my life, unarmed and alone--but what could one man do? They bore me down to the ground, and thrusting their knives in me a last time, pursued their way, leaving me for dead. "'Have no fear for the Lady Margaret!' Dunraven cried, as with a smile he left me. 'I will care well for her.' I lay there and cursed the fate that had willed that I, a man who had slain a score of gallant gentlemen in fair fight, and held at bay for five long years the strength of Europe, should die in an unknown hole of this great uninhabited country. "Even as I lay thus, I heard a light step, and the ruffian Marsden came stealing down, knife in hand, fearing that by some mischance I might betray the secret of his perfidy to Dunraven. I waited quietly, with my eyes closed, until he bent over me, then gathering all my strength, even as a lamp flares up into a bright flame before it goes out forever, I sprang at him, and caught him by the throat. "With a yell of fear, he wrenched himself free and tore down the path, with me at his heels. I drew nearer and nearer to him until, with one last leap, I sprang upon his back and hurled him to the ground. Then with his own sword I slew him. Could I have only cut the throat of that fiend Dunraven, I would die content. "And now, thou dweller of another sphere, one last thing to soothe thy troubled heart would I do, before I go to join thee. The Lady Margaret loves thee. Would I could have told thee before thou hadst passed out of this mortal globe, but I only discovered it a few brief hours ago. They say that dying men see plainly into the future. I know not if that be true--I only know that something tells me that Margaret Carroll will be the bride of a nobler man than Dunraven." He was nearing the end now, and with long-drawn breath and wildly groping hands, he fought for breath. Suddenly he looked up at me with vacant gaze. "Say that thou forgivest me for the share I had in thy detention!" he wildly cried. "As God is my witness, I have rued it oft and deeply. I have other and grievous sins to answer for, and would not go down to death with that blot unforgiven." "I forgive thee," I gently answered, as I bent over him, "and though 'twas a terrible thing, I bear thee no malice, and would not stand between thee and thy God." "I have done thee a great favor," he muttered. "Thou wilt discover it sometime." He babbled on a few moments at random. Of deeds of blood and terror, awful and ghastly; of men murdered in cold blood; of women and children put to death with torture, such as the mind of man could hardly conceive, by the thumbscrew and the stake; of burning ships and murdered crews. Then a look of cunning and avarice came over his ghastly face, and he tried to raise himself, but was too weak. He could only beckon me to draw near.