The grip relaxed, and Hunt shook himself free, and tossed his arms. "What now?" he echoed, and had hate and dreadful laughter in the scream his words made. "What now! I come out for him! For him and 'er as put me away and as I told her in the dock I'd come. Straight for 'em I come. Straight for 'em with the police after me. Stole this for 'em and come to give it 'em." He drew from his jacket what gleamed in his hand as he shook it aloft. "Come to shoot 'em like dogs as used me like dogs, the bloody tyrangs. I've got better for 'em now. They can go free--free! turned out! turned out! chucked into the street! kicked out! Think of 'em! Think of 'em crying and howling and beggars and laughed at and pointed at! That's what I'm going to give 'em. Into my hand God Almighty what casts down the oppressors and the tyrangs has delivered 'em! That's what--ar-r-r!" Percival was on him and threw him. His throat was in Percival's clutch and his hands tearing at the hands that throttled him. "You are not!" Percival cried. "You are not. By God, you shall not!" In those wild words of Hunt's and what they meant--the world's mockery; in that vile face and what it stood for--the world's cruelty, clearly there came to him the answer that vainly in his torment he had sought. Rollo face this? Rollo to this be subjected? Rollo suffer ejection from home and name? Ah, now he knew which in the big fight had been defeat and which was victory. "Rollo! Rollo! Rollo!" he had cried, and cried it as a curse. "Rollo! Rollo! Rollo!" now beat in his brain and in his grinding fingers and was pulse of the old protection throbbing for his friend that ever had been more than brother to him. "Percival, you are killing him!"--Ima's fingers were on his, pulling his grip. "Keep away! keep away!" he cried. "I'll have his life if need be!" and to Hunt, livid and at last gasp: "You damned devil! You damned devil! What are you going to promise me? How am I going to bind you? What am I going to do with you?" There came gaspingly: "Promise--promise--oath to it." He relaxed his fingers, and as Hunt drew gasping breaths, "You damned devil!" he cried again. "You damned fool. Did you not hear talk of proofs? Nothing in them! Nothing in them! Can you hear that?" He was thrown on his side, he was grappled with by one whom fear of death gave strength, his clutch was eluded and Hunt sprang free. "Nothing in them! What's your murder fingers for, then? Nothing in them--what you say 'Mother' for, then? Nothing in them--what--keep away! Keep off of me!" He whipped from his pocket what had gleamed in his hand. "Keep off of me! I'll fire. By God, I'll let you have it if you come at me!" _An' come at him, an' come at him, an' come at him_, as of Percival in the fight the old men say.