"Then, have at you for a murderer and a villain!" With that our swords crossed, and even on that night of battle, with its many hand-to-hand encounters, no fiercer, deadlier combat could have raged than that which now commenced inside that lonely building. If ever two men strove amain to kill each other, we were those two; if ever steel shot forth with hate behind it, that steel was surely ours. My foe soon proved himself a skilful, wary swordsman, but had he been the finest then in England, methinks I would have mastered him at last. Fearing, if chance afforded, that he might dart out into the night and thus escape me, I kept a stolid back towards the doorway. Thus it was he who did most of the attacking, and so swift and furious was it that more than once his point came dangerously near my heart. At last I tried a sudden twist (learnt from my father), and thereby forced Ammon’s weapon from his grasp. He sprang back hissing like a cat, and doubtless thought his hour was come. But though I longed to kill him that was not my way of doing it. I bid him take his sword again--an act of fairness which came near costing me my life; for presently, presuming on it, he made pretence to lose his weapon yet again, and when I motioned him to take it, made a sudden, upward thrust at me ere I was ready for him. But at last the craftiness of Tubal Ammon failed him utterly. I turned his blade aside so that it ran beneath my arm, and, as he thus rushed blindly forward, my sword shot straight into his breast. Staggering to the wall, he stood there glaring at me for a moment, while the life-blood spurted from him; then with a vengeful cry he tried to spring upon me--failed, and crashed dead at my feet. Thus died Tubal Ammon, King of Subtlety, and verily it seemed to me the manner of his end was one which well befitted him. ’Twas in a barn that he had tried to kill me privily--’twas in a hovel that I left him dead. One half of my vow thus happily accomplished, I went in search of him whom Ammon’s sword had smitten. I found him lying with his shoulders partly propped up by a tree, to which he had made shift to crawl. His hands were spread in front of him, his chin hung down upon his breast, and so I thought that he was dead. But on kneeling down beside him I found that he still breathed. Having taken off his steel cap I raised the drooping head, then nearly let it fall again, for the bloodless face, on which a setting moon shone, was none other than John Coram’s. His eyes were closed, but when I called his name he opened them and gazed at me in a dim, dazed fashion. "You here--you?" he murmured. "Yes, yes; how came it thus?" I said. "Stark!" he gasped. "We met in battle--I pursued--he led me on--then turned upon me here--and--faith, his accursed sword hath gone clean through my lungs. I bleed within. I die." "Stark is dead," I said by way of comfort. "What! didst kill him?" "Yes. He lies dead scarce two hundred yards from here."