The night air, which had been warm heretofore, struck chilly now, and, as I stood up fronting Black George, I shivered, seeing which he laughed, short and fierce, and, with the laugh, came at me, striking downwards at my head as he came, and tough wood met tough wood with a shock that jarred me from wrist to shoulder. To hit him upon the arm, and disable him, was my one thought and object. I therefore watched for an opening, parrying his swift strokes and avoiding his rushes as well as I might. Time and again our weapons crashed together, now above my head, now to right, or left, sometimes rattling in quick succession, sometimes with pauses between strokes, pauses filled in with the sound of heavy breathing and the ceaseless thud of feet upon the sward. I was already bruised in half-a-dozen places, my right hand and arm felt numb, and with a shooting pain in the shoulder, that grew more acute with every movement; my breath also was beginning to labor. Yet still Black George pressed on, untiring, relentless, showering blow on blow, while my arm grew ever weaker and weaker, and the pain in my shoulder throbbed more intensely. How long had we fought? five minutes—ten—half-an-hour—an hour? I could see the sweat gleaming upon his cheek, his eyes were wild, his mouth gaped open, and he drew his breath in great sobbing pants. But, as I looked, his cudgel broke through my tired guard, and, taking me full upon the brow, drove me reeling back; my weapon slipped from my grasp, and, blinded with blood, I staggered to and fro, like a drunken man, and presently slipped to the grass. And how sweet it was to lie thus, with my cheek upon kind mother earth, to stretch my aching body, and with my weary limbs at rest. But Black George stood above me, panting, and, as his eyes met mine, he laughed—a strange-sounding, broken laugh, and whirled up his cudgel—to beat out my brains—even as the Pedler had foretold—to-morrow the blackbird would sing upon my motionless breast, and, looking into Black George's eyes—I smiled. "Get up!" he panted, and lowered the cudgel. "Get up—or, by God—I'll do—for 'ee!" Sighing, I rose, and took the cudgel he held out to me, wiping the blood from my eyes as I did so. And now, as I faced him once more, all things vanished from my ken save the man before me—he filled the universe, and, even as he leaped upon me, I leaped upon him, and struck with all my strength; there was a jarring, splintering shock, and Black George was beaten down upon his knees, but as, dropping my weapon, I stepped forward, he rose, and stood panting, and staring at the broken cudgel in his hand. "George!" said I. "You 'm a-bleedin', Peter!" "For that matter, so are you." "Blood-lettin' be—good for a man—sometimes eases un." "It does," I panted; "perhaps you are—willing to hear reason—now?" "We be—even so fur—but fists be better nor—sticks any day—an' I—be goin'—to try ye—wi' fists!" "Have we not bled each other sufficiently?"