"In St. Michael's name!" cried the child, and beat Ralph Ingle lustily about the head; but Ingle swept down his chubby arms as though they had been gnats, and ran on toward the nearest gate. When he reached the Governor's Spring, he noticed that the waters ran red with blood. By its margin two men were cutting and thrusting with sword and cutlass, while a third with hand clasped to his throat lay along the curb, his head hanging lifeless over the water. "Help, Ralph!" came in Claiborne's voice from the group. As he called out he retreated a step, that he might free the weapon which his adversary held engaged. His opponent, who fought with his back to Ingle, took advantage of the retreat, and making a lunge forward, drove his sword into Claiborne's side, crying out,-- "Take that for the death of Philpotts!" Claiborne fell, wounded. "Wait till I get some one to hold this wriggling brat, and I'm with you." So far Ingle had gone in his speech when the foeman turned, and Ingle saw that in front of him which made his cheek blanch and his heart fail and his knees totter under him, for there stood a dead man waving a sword and making ready for a thrust at his heart, while Cecil shouted aloud with joy,-- "Thir Chrithtopher! help! help! He is taking me from my mother!" No words answered. From a ghost none were to be looked for; but the steel flashed in air, and when it drew back it left a trail of blood. Ingle felt a quick intolerable pain at his heart, and the arm around Cecil slackened its hold till the child dropped to the ground. "So you are come to take me to Hell, are you?" he muttered between set teeth, then swayed, reeled, and fell to earth with eyes fixed. Neville stood over him with vengeance in his glance. "Are you from the charnel-house or from Hell itself?" asked Ingle. "Is not this enough like Hell?" "Ah, you _have_ come from Hell, and know what it is like. Did the devil tell you? I meant to thwart Satan himself by confessing just before I died." "If you have a confession to make, best be quick, for your last hour is come." "A priest!" he murmured, for years of indifference could not quite obliterate the memory of Pater Nosters lisped at his mother's knee; "or no, a priest would be harder than any, they stick so close by one another." "If you do indeed desire to free your soul of a confession," said Neville, touched in spite of himself by the look of death on Ingle's face, "speak to me and in the presence of this child whom you have wronged." "Do you think I could so escape Hell?" "'Tis no business of mine," answered Neville; "but for myself I'd not like to die with a sin on my soul." "No business of yours! Then--the--devil--did--not--tell--you." The words came slower now, with little gasps between. Suddenly his glazing eye brightened a little. "A priest! a priest!" he repeated. Looking round, Neville saw Father White passing up and down rendering help and solace to the wounded. "Run and fetch him, Cecil!" he said.