"Nonsense!" cried Benet. "They will have heard the guns as well as we, and they will know what it means. The game is up, I tell you. Besides we can never find a better place than this. Here is green grass to stand on, and a rare light. Now, Trevanion." I drew my sword and stood before him. Even as I did so I knew to whom I owed his coming. It was Uncle Anthony who had told him how I stood. The old man knew his disposition, knew that fighting was the breath of Benet Killigrew's life, and was sure that it would be untold joy to him to do battle with me again. Perhaps he hoped that in some way I might be able to successfully defend myself. For the hermit felt kindly towards me, even although I had thwarted the hope of his life. Strange as it may seem, however, I had almost forgotten the greater issues at stake. While I had spoken with Otho and Uncle Anthony, and heard the mutterings of bitterness among their companions because their hopes had been frustrated, I felt that I had indeed taken part in a very important business, that, perhaps, I had changed the very life of the country. I had to some extent realized the bitter disappointment they must have felt, as well as their great anger towards me. But now my thoughts were narrowed down to smaller issues, and although just after I drew my sword I heard the dull boom of another gun resounding across the waters, I thought nothing of the rage that the young Pretender must have felt, or of what it might mean to millions of people. My great thought was to sell my life dearly, for now that I was once more free I felt my own man again. I knew that Benet Killigrew was a great fighter, and although he had not been master in the past, I stood at great disadvantage now. I had been weakened by my wound, and my experiences of the last few days were not of a nature to fit a man to fight with such a swordsman as Benet. All around me stood the dark angry faces of his friends, and I was sure that, even should I master my opponent, they would see to it that I should not escape alive. Still a man at thirty-two years of age is not easily conquered. He has not lost the hot blood of youth, and he has also gained the caution and the judgment necessary to use his strength wisely. And this I determined to do. Most of the men who had lit the great beacon fire were gone, and I hoped that even in spite of my dark prospects I might still be able to keep my skin whole. I knew the man who stood before me. Passionate, daring, and strong as he might be, he had still the feelings of a gentleman. There was nothing cunning in his nature. He would fight openly, fight for the very joy of fighting. The ferociousness of the savage he doubtless possessed, but he had higher feelings as well. "It gives me joy to meet you, Benet Killigrew," I said. "If I am to die, I shall be glad to die at the hands of a brave man, rather than to be butchered by one who knows not what a swordsman ought to feel."