In desperation Jarvis threw his revolver at the head of the assailant! It was a futile pebble toss. The weapon clattered against the metal vizor and bounced off, as the weird assailant ran within striking distance. For the first time in his life came the sensation of helplessness in a fight. There was a numbing feeling of horror as he recoiled before this thing. His back touched the stone wall, just as the quick figure made a forward step and struck again. The sword rang out against the rock, but the hand that held that weapon knew how to wield it with determination. Jarvis had dropped to his knees, and imitated Rusty's escape, until he was out of reach. He might have grappled--but the thought came too late. He saw the ancient weapons on the wall--there was a great poleax. This was the instrument made for the man-at-arms to withstand the noble knight in the days of old. He whirled it on high as the other came toward him. The double-edged sword rose high to parry the stroke, and the sharp weapon clove through the rotten wood helve: Time had disarmed the American again. A deep-chested laugh came from the human "battleship." Warren laughed back--in the face of death: the old Jarvis fighting laugh was a tradition in Kentucky. His next weapon was a chair. With this as a guard he managed to swing the sword with a clever parry. He gave the metal breastplate a vigorous high kick. From the helmet there came a muffled "Oooof!" Here was one "point" for the modern! [Illustration: _His next weapon was a chair_] Thus they dodged and feinted, striking, whirling, while the Kentuckian planned his campaign. Little by little he drew his implacable opponent toward the charcoal cross-mark on the floor. The great sword rose high--he feigned weakness and dropped his chair. Then, as the toreador dodges the mad onslaught of the maddened bull, he leaped aside and the sword struck the ground. Before it could be raised, he swung from his side position, with the heavy antique chair, against the vizor. The equilibrium of the armored man was none too stable, as he missed his stroke--and his head went back. Again the Kentuckian charged, this time with a barehanded clinch, the chair dropped. Around the metal waist his arms went and he forced the other back but half a foot. It was enough! "_Santa Madre!_" came from the helmet, as the figure stumbled through the opening trap-stone. There was a scream, which suddenly ended at highest pitch--a splash ... then _silence_. Jarvis staggered back, with dilated eyes upon the fatal hole--he wiped the cold beads off his clammy brow, and staggered toward the table for support. Rusty's head came out from the shelter of the stone coping--and he smiled an ashen imitation of amusement. "Whar's yoh friend, Marse Warren?" Jarvis' head was low upon his breast, as he answered quietly: "Water--and a long drop! There's a real ghost due to haunt castle now, Rusty." "I knowed them battleship boogies was spooks!"