Now they stood up to their knees in water, Vytal gaining, until even their scabbards were submerged. Again and again the soldier had striven to turn his foe, but never had he met so dexterous and strategic an opposition. Yet there seemed to be no doubt as to the issue, for at the last Frazer, merely endeavoring to control the other’s point, was content to recede on the defensive. And soon Vytal foresaw that his opponent, who, besides being many inches shorter than himself, was also farther from the shore, would in a moment be struggling in deep water, since even now he was forced to keep his sword-arm at a high level for free play. Having no desire thus to drown him, Vytal purposely fell back a pace, his innate sense of justice forbidding him to avail himself of the advantage, though he had well earned it, and even though his enemy, in the same position, would have profited thereby with no compunction. Yet even as he fell back a mocking laugh escaped from Frazer’s lips, and Vytal, no longer generously hesitating, thrust with fatal intent. Quicker still, however, Frazer dived beneath the water, and the soldier now looked out across a circle of shining ripples that widened until they passed him and reached the shore. And Frazer, with full-inflated lungs, still remained below the surface. Impassively Vytal turned, and, regaining the shore, amazed Marlowe by blowing on the horn. “God’s pity! why do you do that?” asked the poet, still holding his pistol on a level with Towaye’s heart. “It means our massacre.” “Nay,” said the soldier, “he would have tried to regain it were there allies near. His threat was hollow. I seek to arouse the town.” He looked at the two men before him as they stood facing each other, the poet threatening, the Indian sullen, and added, mercilessly, “Fire!” “To kill?” Vytal turned to Manteo. “He is _your_ enemy, my brother.” “To kill,” said the chief, “for he is a traitor to the men of his blood.” The poet shuddered. “Do you, then, avenge them,” he said, handing the pistol to Manteo, and the lord of Roanoke inclined his head. A pistol-shot rang out. Towaye fell with a groan, mortally wounded. A face rose to the surface of the water, invisible behind a rock, and a pair of lips opened wide to admit air, then closed tightly and disappeared. “Now, make haste,” said Vytal to Manteo. “Get you over yonder ridge and intercept our enemy if he lands there.” Without a word the Indian sprang to the sand-bank, and, clearing it, was lost to view. Vytal turned to Marlowe. “Stay here. He is a fox, and may retrace his course, supposing that we have gone to the right and left in search of him. I guard the northern shore,” and instantly Vytal disappeared beyond the second bulwark. “He is not a fox, but a fish,” muttered Marlowe, reloading his pistol. Almost before the words were spoken a head appeared above the surface of the water. The poet raised his weapon and took aim.