A struggle of the most terrific kind now ensued. The wounded man had descended the bridge, and dashed himself against the door beyond it; but, finding it impossible to force his way further, he turned to confront his assailants. Jonathan aimed a blow at him, which, if it had taken place, must have instantly terminated the strife; but, avoiding this, he sprang at the thief-taker, and grappled with him. Firmly built, as it was, the bridge creaked in such a manner with their contending efforts, that Abraham durst not venture beyond the door, where he stood, holding the light, a horrified spectator of the scene. The contest, however, though desperate, was brief. Disengaging his right arm, Jonathan struck his victim a tremendous blow on the head with the bludgeon, that fractured his skull; and, exerting all his strength, threw him over the rails, to which he clung with the tenacity of despair. [Illustration: 059] “Spare me!” he groaned, looking upwards. “Spare me!” Jonathan, however, instead of answering him, searched for his knife, with the intention of severing his wrist. But not finding it, he had again recourse to the bludgeon, and began beating the hand fixed on the upper rail, until, by smashing the fingers, he forced it to relinquish its hold. He then stamped upon the hand on the lower bannister, until that also relaxed its gripe. Sir Rowland then fell. A hollow plunge, echoed and re-echoed by the walls, marked his descent into the water. “Give me the link,” cried Jonathan. Holding down the light, he perceived that the wounded man had risen to the surface, and was trying to clamber up the slippery sides of the well. “Shoot him! shoot him! Put him out of hish mishery,” cried the Jew. “What's the use of wasting a shot?” rejoined Jonathan, savagely. “He can't get out.” After making several ineffectual attempts to keep himself above water, Sir Rowland sunk, and his groans, which had become gradually fainter and fainter, were heard no more. “All's over,” muttered Jonathan. “Shall ve go back to de other room?” asked the Jew. “I shall breathe more freely dere. Oh! Christ! de door's shut! It musht have schwung to during de schuffle!” “Shut!” exclaimed Wild. “Then we're imprisoned. The spring can't be opened on this side.” “Dere's de other door!” cried Mendez, in alarm. “It only leads to the fencing crib,” replied Wild. “There's no outlet that way.” “Can't ve call for asshistanche?” “And who'll find us, if we do?” rejoined Wild, fiercely. “But they _will_ find the evidences of slaughter in the other room,--the table upset,--the bloody cloth,--the dead man's sword,--the money,--and my memorandum, which I forgot to remove. Hell's curses! that after all my precautions I should be thus entrapped. It's all your fault, you shaking coward! and, but that I feel sure you'll swing for your carelessness, I'd throw you into the well, too.” CHAPTER XIII. THE SUPPER AT MR. KNEEBONE'S.