At last, being the stronger and more skilful with his weapon, Gil drove his adversary back, step by step, delivering thrusts with lightning-like rapidity, every one as it succeeded the other being more feebly parried; and at last, with a strange sense of gratified passion in his breast, Gil pressed him more sorely, as he felt that he was in his power, when, just as he felt that victory was his, the tables were turned, for Sir Mark's sword which he held snapped short off at the hilt, and it was only by stepping sharply back that Gil saved his life. For, beside himself with fury, Sir Mark seized the opportunity, and aimed so deadly a thrust that it must have passed through his opponent's body. Gil's rapid retrograde movement saved him, however, for the moment, though he tripped over the remains of a mould, and fell headlong at his adversary's feet. "Slain in fair fight," cried Sir Mark, exultantly, as, leaping forward, he placed his foot upon his adversary's chest, and thrust at his throat. "Not yet," cried Gil, hoarsely. "I am a sailor." As he spoke he caught the descending blade in his hand, turned it aside, and it passed into the charcoal floor, while, before Sir Mark could repeat his thrust, he was sent staggering back as Gil sprang to his feet. Then, sharply striking aside a fresh thrust, Gil closed with his adversary; there was a brief struggle; with one hand holding Sir Mark's sword-wrist, the other raised on high, he was about to strike with his short keen dagger, when a loud cry arrested him, and Mace, followed by her father and his foreman Croftly, ran in. "Shame on thee, Gilbert Carr," cried Mace, as she rushed between the adversaries. "Is this thy conduct towards my father's guest?" "Thy father's guest would have run me through, mistress," he said, curtly. "I did but fight for life." "I'll have no more of this," cried the founder, fiercely. "Gilbert Carr, there have been too much of thy swashbuckling ways." "Nay, Master Cobbe, you are too hard upon me," said Gil. "It was a fair fight, fairly provoked." "I'll not have my child made the prize for any fighting," cried the founder, hotly. "Mace, this is your doing." "If Gilbert Carr made me the object for which his sword was bared," cried Mace, coldly, "he might have left it in its sheath." "I have not deserved this at your hands, Mace," whispered Gil. "It is cruel, indeed." Mace spoke not, but as she saw her lover's emotion she felt that she would rather bite out her tongue than say such words again. "I forbade you my place, Gil Carr," cried the founder. "You are no friend to me. Sir Mark is my guest, and an officer of the King, whom you have assailed, so get you gone ere the officers of justice lay you by the heels." "I fear no officers of justice," cried Gil, angrily; "and I presume Sir Mark is too much of a gentleman to shelter himself behind their staves." "But you need fear them," cried the founder angrily. "What is this I hear of Abel Churr?"