“We have neither of us much time to throw away, I fancy,” said he, with a bitter laugh; “choose your place now, sir, and fire when you please—mine is yonder;” and as he spoke he turned half round to walk towards the spot indicated. With the quickness of lightning, Hemsworth seized the moment, and drawing a pistol from his bosom, aimed and fired; the ball grazed Mark's shoulder, and made him stagger forwards; but in a second he recovered himself: the casualty saved him; for while falling, a second bullet whizzed after the first. With a cry of vengeance that made the old walls ring again, Mark sprang at him; it was the deadly leap of a tiger on his prey; the impulse was such, that as he caught him in his arms, both rolled over together on the floor. The struggle was but brief; Mark, superior in youth, strength, and activity, soon got him under, and with his knee upon his chest, pinioned him down to the ground. There was a pause, the only sounds being the quick-drawn breathings of both, as with looks of hate they gazed at each other;—while with one hand he grasped Hemsworth by the throat, with the other he felt for his pistol: slowly he drew forth the weapon, and cocked it; then laying the cold muzzle upon the other's forehead, he pressed the trigger; the cock snapped, but the priming burned. He flung the weapon from him in passion, and drew another; but ere he could adjust it, Hemsworth ceased to breathe; a cold livid colour spread over his features, and a clammy sweat bedewed his forehead—he had fainted.
Mark dropped the uplifted weapon, as he muttered—“It was a fitting fate—the death of a coward.” Then standing up, he approached the window that overlooked the road, and threw it wide open. The storm still blew with all its force, and in a second extinguished the lights in the room, leaving all in darkness. With cautious steps, Mark moved towards where the body lay, and lifting it in his powerful arms, carried it towards the window; with one vigorous effort he hurled the lifeless form from him, and the heavy mass was heard as it fell crashing among the brushwood that covered the precipice.
Mark gazed for a few seconds into the black abyss beneath, and then withdrawing, he closed the window, and barred it. By the aid of his pistol he struck a light, and relighted the candles, and then approached the sofa where Kate lay.
“Have I been ill, Mark?” said she, as she touched his band—“have I been ill, and dreaming a horrid dream? I thought Hems-worth was here, and that—that—but he was here—I know it now—you met him here. Oh, Mark, dearest Mark, what has happened—where is he?”
Mark pointed to the window, but never spoke.
“Is he killed—did you kill him?” cried she, as her eyes grew wild with the expression of terror. “Oh, merciful heaven, who has visited us so heavily, why will reason remain when madness would be mercy! You have killed him!”
“He did not die by my hand, though he well deserved to have done so,” said Mark, sternly; “but are our hours to be so many now, that we can waste them on such a theme. The French are in the Bay—at least a portion of the fleet—sixteen vessels, nine of which are ships of the line, are holding by their anchors beneath our cliffs; twenty more are at sea, or wrecked or captured by the English, for who can tell the extent of our disasters. All is against us; but against all we might succeed, if we had not traitors amongst us.”
“The Government is aware of the plot, Mark—knows every man engaged in it, and is fully prepared to meet your advance.”