The rebel was the better armed, carrying a neat sporting rifle, to
which was attached a long, sharp saber-bayonet. Frank noticed this
difference, but resolutely stood his ground, and, as he was very
expert in the bayonet exercise, and as his enemy appeared to be but
very little his superior in strength and agility, he had no fear as to
the result of the conflict.

At length the rebel, after eyeing his youthful antagonist for a
moment, commenced maneuvering slowly, intending, if possible, to draw
him out. But Frank stood entirely on the defensive; failing in this
mode of attack, the rebel began to grow excited, and became quicker
in his movements. But his efforts were useless, for Frank--although
a little pale, which showed that he knew the struggle must end in the
death of one or the other of them--did not retreat an inch, but coolly
parried every thrust made by his infuriated enemy, with the skill of a
veteran. The rebel was again obliged to change his plan of attack, and
commenced by rushing furiously upon Frank, endeavoring to beat down
his guard by mere strength. But this proved his ruin; for Frank met
him promptly at all points, and, watching the moment when the rebel
carelessly opened his guard, he sprang forward and buried his bayonet
to the hilt in his breast. The thrust was mortal, and the rebel threw
his arms above his head, and sank to the ground without a groan.

"I believe he's done for," said Frank to himself; and he stepped up to
take a nearer look at his enemy. There he lay, his pale face upturned,
and the blood running from an ugly wound in the region of his heart.
"I do believe he _is_ dead," repeated Frank, with a shudder, as
he gazed sorrowfully at he work he had done. "But there was no
alternative between his death and a long confinement in prison. It was
done in self-defense;" and he turned to walk away.