Drexel had known that the man was stronger than he seemed, but he had not guessed that that lean body possessed such steely strength as it now revealed. Each time he tried a twist or a trick, Freeman matched it, and laughed tauntingly at his failure. So, swaying about in the tiny sleigh, each struggling for an instant’s possession of that which meant the other’s death, they dashed past snow-shrouded shrubbery, past statues done up in straw to ward off the marble-chipping cold--out of the park--down an incline and out upon the frozen river. And still they struggled, and still the big black galloped madly over the ice. Drexel saw that his gaining the pistol was doubtful, and he determined that at least Freeman should have no advantage from it. As they struggled he cautiously shifted his grip on the pistol till his forefinger slipped into the trigger guard. As swiftly as his finger could work, he six times pulled the trigger, and six times harmless fire spurted toward the stars. The seventh time he pulled there was only a sharp click that announced the pistol to be empty. Instantly he dropped the weapon and drove his right fist into Freeman’s face. The blow unbalanced Freeman; he went reeling backward from the sleigh, dragging Drexel with him, and the horse dashed away through the night. Locked together, the two fell heavily upon the ice and rolled over and over. In the same moment that Drexel had struck Freeman with his right, his left had darted out and clutched the spy’s black-bearded throat; and now as they tumbled and twisted about, his hand held on with savage, deathlustful grip, and his fist drove again and again into the spy’s face. Freeman beat the wrist of the hand at his throat between hammer-like fists, but the hand only bit the deeper. “You’ll never play Judas again!” Drexel gloatingly gasped into the other’s face, which gleamed defiantly back into his. Somehow he realized that they lay fighting in the shadow of Saints Peter and Paul, where this man had sent Sonya. He drove in his fists more fiercely. Freeman’s struggles grew weaker, yet he spoke not a word for mercy; whatever he was, he knew how to die game. Then the struggling ceased, and the body lay limp. Still Drexel’s vengeance-mad fists drove home. He had not noticed that, upon the shots, several figures had started running from the banks across the ice. So he was now startled when a rough voice called out, “Stop! What are you doing?” and when a hand fell upon his shoulder. He rose from the motionless body, and saw that he was surrounded by policemen. He was giving himself up for lost, when the policeman, who had spoken, said: “Oh, I see you are a gendarme.” Drexel caught at the chance. “Yes,” he panted. “I had arrested him, and he tried to shoot me. He’s a political.” “An important one?” A bold idea came to Drexel. “You heard of Captain Nadson’s great arrest to-night?”