"Here!" he said, as they came on a level piece, and rolled up the sleeves
of his guernsey. "Put away your knife;" and Martel, with a curse at the
implication, drew it from its sheath at his back and flung it among the
bracken.

Then, without a word, they tackled one another. No gripping now, but hard
fell blows straight from the shoulder, warded when possible, or taken in
grim silence. They fought, not as men fight in battle,--for general
principles and with but dim understanding of the rights and wrongs of the
matter; but with the bitter intensity born of personal wrongs and the
desire for personal vengeance. To Hamon, Martel represented the grievous
shadow on Rachel Carré's life. To Martel, Hamon represented Sercq and all
the contumely that had been heaped upon him there.

Their faces were set like rocks. Their teeth were clenched. They breathed
hard and quick--through their noses at first, but presently, and of
necessity, in short sharp gasps from the chest.

It was a great fight, with none to see it but the placid moon, and so
strong was her light that there seemed to be four men fighting, two above
and two below. And at times they all merged into a writhing confusion of
fierce pantings and snortings as of wild beasts, but for the most part they
fought in grim silence, broken only by the whistle of the wind through
their swollen lips, the light thud of their feet on the trampled ground,
and the grisly sound of fist on flesh. And they fought for love of Rachel
Carré, which the one had not been able to win and the other had not been
able to keep.

Martel was the bigger man, but Hamon's legs and arms had springs of hate in