With a howl he came at me, missing my fire in his onward rush, dashing the pistol from my hand with a madman's force, and, seizing me round the waist, endeavoured to throw me to the earth. Yet, though I had no frenzy, I too was strong, and I wrestled with him, so that about the hut we went, knocking over first the tub of liquor with which the place became drenched, and falling at last together on the ground. And all this time, Alderly was cursing and howling, sometimes even biting at me, and tearing my flesh with his teeth, especially about the hands, and gripping my throat with his own strong hands--made doubly strong because of his frenzy. I smelt his hot, stinking, spirit-sodden breath all over me; I could even smell the filth of his body as he hissed out: "I ever hated you, Winstanley; I hated you when I made your own hands slay you. I hated you in life, I hate you now in death. And as I slew you in life, again will I slay you in death." Then at this moment he gave a yell of triumph. His hand had encountered the hilt of my sword, and drawing it forth from its broken sheath, he shortened it to plunge it into my breast. But as he did so I got one of my hands released. I felt for my other pistol, I cocked it with my thumb, when, ere I could fire, the cutlash dropped from Alderly's hand and he sprang to his feet, his hands upon his wound. "See," he whispered now, "there be two Winstanleys: one here--one coming through the wood. Are there any more--?" Staggering, he stood glaring forth into the wood through the open door, seeing another spectre, as he thought, there; then slowly he sank to the ground, letting his hands fall away from the gash in his breast, from which the tide now ran swiftly. "Oh, agony! agony!" he moaned. "Can one live and feel such pain as this. Nay! this is death. Barbara, draw near me. Listen. This hut is full of spoil--beneath--none know but I--all mine--now all yours. The other is buried--elsewhere--Oh! God--the agony! Barbara--rich--rich--for life--lady--fortune--give me drink--drink--" Then once more singing in a broken voice, "When money's--plenty--boys--we drink To drown--" he fell back moaning again. And so he died. CHAPTER XXIII. THE TREASURE HOUSE. So now I was the last of all left who had come away from the _Furie_. Neither of my crew nor of this dead ruffian's was there any one to tell the tale but I. A strange ending indeed to such a flight and such a chase. The dead pirate lay upon his back, the blood from his wound trickling down to mix with the spirit from the overturned cask. The box of treasure lay at my feet, and, if his dying words were true and not spoken in his madness, beneath my feet was a vast treasure.