Now Talbot's Irish blood was very quick and fiery. That word "betters" stung him, the look on Rousby's face infuriated him. "I don't admit any betters," said he. "In fact I only see inferiors before me." His voice was cold as steel, and as biting. Michael had never heard him speak like that before. Rousby and the captain started to their feet. "Keep out of this, you!" Talbot roared at the captain, and leaning across the table gave him such a push that he set him down in his chair. Then Talbot's gloved hand struck Rousby on the cheek. "Take that!" he cried. "If you want to settle the matter now, I'm ready!" Rousby bellowed with rage. He gave the table a shove that sent it flying, and his fist shot out at Talbot. Talbot caught it and whirled the man around. Then Rousby grabbed the dagger he wore at his side and rushed at Talbot with it. Talbot stepped to one side, and the same instant drew his own knife. Rousby swung round at him again, dagger uplifted; but Talbot was the quicker. He struck with his knife, in the breast, pressed Rousby back and back until he leaned on the table. It had all happened in the twinkling of an eye. Now the captain and the third man sprang forward. Each caught one of Talbot's arms and held it They were too late to save the collector, however. Talbot had stabbed him in the heart, and Christopher Rousby was dead. The captain seized a pistol from a rack and leveled it at Talbot. "Drop your knife!" he ordered, "and surrender to His Majesty's officers! This is bad business for you! Murder of a royal agent!" Talbot dropped the knife. "At your orders," he said. "I yield as your prisoner." [Illustration: "I YIELD AS YOUR PRISONER"] The other man caught up a rope and soon had the prisoner's hands bound behind him. "Take him up on deck," said the captain. "And send two of the sailors down here to me." The other officer marched Talbot up the companionway. Michael followed. On deck the officer stepped away from his prisoner long enough to speak to one of the sailors. While he was doing this Talbot whispered to Michael. "Get ashore," he whispered, "and tell the magistrate at St. Mary's what has happened. Then get word if you can to Sir William Talbot and to my wife." It was dark on deck, a murky evening. Michael slipped over to the side of the ship, found the rope-ladder, and crawled down it to where the fisherman was still waiting in his boat. He didn't like to leave his master in the hands of his enemies, but he knew that Talbot wanted to be obeyed. "Mr. Talbot is going to stay on board," Michael said to the boatman. "You're to row me to shore." A little later he landed at St. Mary's. He was soaking wet and very cold, but he gave no thought to that. II