“It's all over with him by this time, master,” replied Ben, turning the head of his boat, and rowing swiftly towards the scene of strife; “but d--n him, he was the chap as hit poor Bill Thomson just now, and I don't much care if he should be food for fishes.” As Ben spoke, they drew near the opposing parties. The contest was now carried on between Rowland and Darrell. The latter had delivered himself from one of his assailants, the attendant, Davies. Hurled over the sides of the skiff, the ruffian speedily found a watery grave. It was a spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was running fast and furiously, bore him instantly away. While the strife raged between the principals, the watermen in the larger wherry were occupied in stemming the force of the torrent, and endeavouring to keep the boats, they had lashed together, stationary. Owing to this circumstance, Mr. Wood's boat, impelled alike by oar and tide, shot past the mark at which it aimed; and before it could be again brought about, the struggle had terminated. For a few minutes, Darrell seemed to have the advantage in the conflict. Neither combatant could use his sword; and in strength the fugitive was evidently superior to his antagonist. The boat rocked violently with the struggle. Had it not been lashed to the adjoining wherry, it must have been upset, and have precipitated the opponents into the water. Rowland felt himself sinking beneath the powerful grasp of his enemy. He called to the other attendant, who held the torch. Understanding the appeal, the man snatched his master's sword from his grasp, and passed it through Darrell's body. The next moment, a heavy plunge told that the fugitive had been consigned to the waves. Darrell, however, rose again instantly; and though mortally wounded, made a desperate effort to regain the boat. “My child!” he groaned faintly. “Well reminded,” answered Rowland, who had witnessed his struggles with a smile of gratified vengeance; “I had forgotten the accursed imp in this confusion. Take it,” he cried, lifting the babe from the bottom of the boat, and flinging it towards its unfortunate father. The child fell within a short distance of Darrell, who, hearing the splash, struck out in that direction, and caught it before it sank. At this juncture, the sound of oars reached his ears, and he perceived Mr. Wood's boat bearing up towards him. “Here he is, waterman,” exclaimed the benevolent carpenter. “I see him!--row for your life!” “That's the way to miss him, master,” replied Ben coolly. “We must keep still. The tide'll bring him to us fast enough.” Ben judged correctly. Borne along by the current, Darrell was instantly at the boat's side. “Seize this oar,” vociferated the waterman. “First take the child,” cried Darrell, holding up the infant, and clinging to the oar with a dying effort. “Give it me,” returned the carpenter; “all's safe. Now lend me your own hand.”