preserved him from those sledge-hammer blows, which seemed as though
each must break the arm they fell upon. As for using his whistle, the
opportunity, of course, was not afforded him; and, moreover, he had no
breath to spare for such a purpose. Breath, however, was also a
desideratum with the poacher, and the more so inasmuch as he accompanied
every blow--as Brian de Bois-Guilbert was wont to hammer home his
mace-strokes with "Ha! Beauseant, Beauseant!"--with some amazing oath.
It is recorded of an American gentleman, much given to blasphemy, that
he could entertain "an intelligent companion" for half a day with the
mere force and ingenuity of his expletives; and this singular talent
seemed to be shared by Richard Yorke's antagonist. That one of the most
accomplished roughs of the Midlands had fallen to the young painter's
lot in that night's _mêlée_, he could not for a moment doubt; but this
reflection did not go far to soothe him. He did not care for fighting
for its own sake, while his pride revolted against thus being kept at
bay by a brutal clown. If he could but get the chance, he made up his
mind to end this matter once for all, and at last the opportunity seemed
to be afforded. The poacher suddenly stepped back to the very margin of
the pond, a long oval piece of water, and not very deep, and quick as
thought, Yorke drew his deadly weapon. But at the same moment there was
a sound of racing feet, and down the drive there came two men at
headlong speed. Yorke did not doubt that they were poachers; but his
blood was up, and he was armed--he felt like an iron-clad against whom
three wooden ships were about to pit themselves. "Where I hit now I make
a hole," he muttered, savagely, and stood firm; nor did he even put his
lips to the whistle that hung round his neck.

[Illustration: "THE MAN TURNED AT ONCE, AND SPRANG AT HIM LIKE A
TIGER."]