ounce of the skill he possessed, and content meanwhile if he could evade
the vicious thrusts of his enemy, Stokoe for a time kept the fiery
little man well at bay. Irritated at length by the giant's coolness, and
by finding him, perhaps, not quite so easy a conquest as he had
anticipated, unable to draw him on to expose himself by attacking, the
Italian for a moment lost patience. None other in England had given him
so much trouble. It was time this farce ended; he would spit the giant
now. Once, twice, thrice--it was with the utmost difficulty that Stokoe
saved himself from being run through the body, and once the sword of his
enemy went through his clothes, grazing his ribs, and sending a warm
stream trickling down his side. Then, suddenly, again the Italian
lunged. This time it surely had been all over with Stokoe. But the foot
of the hectoring little foreigner slipped, or he stumbled owing to some
slight inequality of the ground. For a single instant the man was
overbalanced and off his guard, and before he could recover, Frank
Stokoe's sword passed through his body, sending out of this world one
who whilst in it had wrought much evil.

"Well done, Stokoe! Old Northumberland for ever!" cried a voice from
amongst the considerable crowd of spectators who had run up before the
fight had been in progress many seconds. "Well done, Stokoe!"

Here was danger greater even than that from which he had but now
escaped. He was recognised! And for him to be recognised in London
probably meant instant arrest, and an almost certain end on the
gallows. He was too deeply involved in the late Rebellion; King George's
Government would show him as little mercy as they had showed to his
chief.

Stokoe glanced round uneasily as he wiped his sword, but it was not