them which more than counterbalanced. He was a temperate man too, and in
fine condition. He played his man with discretion, let him exhaust himself
to his heart's content, took with equanimity such blows as he could not
ward or avoid, and kept the temper of his hatred free from extravagance
till his time came.

Martel lost patience and wind. Unless he could end the matter quickly his
chance would be gone. He did his best to close and finish it, but his
opponent knew better, and avoided him warily. They had both received
punishment. Hamon took it for Rachel's sake, Martel for his sins. His brain
was becoming confused with Hamon's quick turns and shrewd blows, and he
could not see as clearly as at first. At times it seemed to him that there
were two men fighting him. He must end it while he had the strength, and he
bent to the task with desperate fury. Then, as he was rushing on his foe
like a bull, with all his hatred boiling in his head, all went suddenly
dark, and he was lying unconscious with his face on the trodden grass, and
George Hamon stood over him, with his fists still clenched, all battered
and bleeding, and breathing like a spent horse, but happier than he had
been for many a day.

Martel lay so still that a fear began to grow in Hamon that he was dead. He
had caught him deftly on the temple as he came on. He had heard of men
being killed by a blow like that. He knelt and turned the other gingerly
over, and felt his heart beating. And then the black eyes opened on him and
the whites of them gleamed viciously in the moonlight, and Hamon stood up,
and, after a moment's consideration, strode away and kicked about in the
bracken till he found the other's knife. Then he picked up his jacket, and
went back to the cottage with the knife in one hand and his jacket in the
other, and went inside and bolted the door, which was not a custom in
Sercq.