A shadow darkened the companion-way, and Radisson came quickly down. His
face was sinister, and his jaws worked like an animal's. Coming to the
table he stood between Gering and Bucklaw, and looked from one to the
other. Bucklaw was cool, Gering very quiet, and he misinterpreted.

"You are great friends, eh, all together?" he said viciously. "All
together you will get the gold. It is no matter what one English do,
the other absolve for gold. A buccaneer, a stealer of women--no, it is
no matter! All English--all together! But I am French--I am the dirt--
I am for the scuppers. Bah! I will have the same as Bucklaw--you see?"

"You will have the irons, fellow!" Phips roared.

A knife flashed in the air, and Bucklaw's pistol was out at the same
instant. The knife caught Bucklaw in the throat and he staggered against
the table like a stuck pig, the bullet hit Radisson in the chest and he
fell back against the wall, his pistol dropping from his hand. Bucklaw,
bleeding heavily, lurched forwards, pulled himself together, and,
stooping, emptied his pistol into the moaning Radisson. Then he sank on
his knees, snatched the other's pistol, and fired again into Radisson's
belly; after which with a last effort he plunged his own dagger into the
throat of the dying man, and, with his fingers still on the handle, fell
with a gurgling laugh across the Frenchman's body.

Radisson recovered for an instant. He gave a hollow cry, drew the knife
from his own throat and, with a wild, shambling motion, struck at the
motionless Bucklaw, pinning an arm to the ground. Then he muttered an
oath and fell back dead.

The tournament of blood was over. So swift had it been there was no