had come for something definite. Suddenly Dyck threw himself back with
an agile step, lunged slightly to one side, and then in a gallant foray
got the steel point into the sword-arm of his enemy. That was the
Enniscorthy stroke, which had been taught him by William Tandy, the
expert swordsman, and had been made famous by Lord Welling, of
Enniscorthy. It succeeded, and it gave Dyck the victory, for Mallow's
sword dropped from his hand.

A fatigued smile came to Mallow's lips. He clasped the wounded arm with
his left hand as the surgeon came forward.

"Well, you got it home," he said to Dyck; "and it's deftly done."

"I did my best," answered Dyck. "Give me your hand, if you will."

With a wry look Mallow, now seated on the old stump of a tree, held out
his left hand. It was covered with blood.

"I think we'll have to forego that courtesy, Calhoun," he said. "Look at
the state of my hand! It's good blood," he added grimly. "It's damned
good blood, but--but it won't do, you see."

"I'm glad it was no worse," said Dyck, not touching the bloody hand.
"It's a clean thrust, and you'll be better from it soon. These great
men"--he smiled towards the surgeons--"will soon put you right. I got my
chance with the stroke, and took it, because I knew if I didn't you'd
have me presently."

"You'll have a great reputation in Dublin town now, and you'll deserve
it," Mallow added adroitly, the great paleness of his features, however,