signaling his discovery with an oath, his free hand instantly grasping
at the knife concealed beneath his loose cloak. Even as he jerked it
forth, I crushed his wrist within my fingers, forcing his fore-arm
back. Breast to breast we wrestled for mastery, every muscle strained,
our feet firm planted on the sand. There was no outcry, no noise,
except that of our heavy breathing, and trampling feet. Personal
hatred had ascendancy in both our hearts--I doubt if he ever thought
of aught else but the desire to kill me there with his own hands. Only
once did he even utter a word, hissing out the sentence as though it
were a poison:

"To hell with you, you sneaking English cur!"

"Then I travel that road not alone," I muttered back. "There will be
one less of the devil's brood afloat."

What followed has to me no clearness, no consistency. I remember, yet
it is as though memory played me a thousand tricks. Never have I
fought more wickedly, nor with deeper realization that I needed every
ounce of strength, and every trick of wit and skill. I had not before
dreamed he was such a man; but now I knew the fellow possessed greater
knowledge of the game than I, and a quicker movement; I alone excelled
in weight of body, and coolness of brain. His efforts were those of an
infuriated animal, his uncontrolled outburst of hatred rendering him
utterly reckless of results in his struggle to overcome me at any
cost. It was this blind blood-lust which gave me victory. I know not
clearly how it was done; my only memory being his frantic efforts to
drive home the knife point, and mine to defeat the thrust. Twice he
pricked me deep enough to draw blood, before I succeeded in twisting
backward the arm with which he held the blade. It was a sailor's trick