He fired again, and a soldier fell. The lust of fighting was on him now. It was not a question of country or of race, but only a man crowding the power of old instincts into the last moments of his life. The vigour and valour of a reconquered youth seemed to inspire him; he felt as he did when a mere boy fighting on the Danube. His blood rioted in his veins; his eyes flashed. He lifted the flask of whiskey and gulped down great mouthfuls of it, and fired again and again, laughing madly.
“Let them come on, let them come on,” he cried. “By God, I’ll settle them!” The frenzy of war possessed him. He heard the timber crash against the door—once, twice, thrice, and then give away. He swung round and saw men’s faces glowing in the light of the fire, and then another face shot in before the others—that of Vanne Castine.
With a cry of fury he ran forward into the doorway. Castine saw him at the same moment. With a similar instinct each sprang for the other’s throat, Castine with a knife in his hand.
A cry of astonishment went up from the officers and the men without. They had expected to see Nic; but Nic was on his way to the horse beneath the great elm tree, and from the elm tree to the State of New York—and safety.
The men and the officers fell back as Castine and Ferrol clinched in a death struggle. Ferrol knew that his end had come. He had expected it, hoped for it. But, before the end, he wanted to kill this man, if he could. He caught Castine’s head in his hands, and, with a last effort, twisted it back with a sudden jerk.
All at once, with the effort, blood spurted from his mouth into the other’s face. He shivered, tottered and fell back, as Castine struck blindly into space. For a moment Ferrol swayed back and forth, stretched out his hands convulsively and gasped, trying to speak, the blood welling from his lips. His eyes were wild, anxious and yearning, his face deadly pale and covered with a cold sweat. Presently he collapsed, like a loosened bundle, upon the steps.
Castine, blinded with blood, turned round, and the light of the fire upon his open mouth made him appear to grin painfully—an involuntary grimace of terror.
At that instant a rifle shot rang out from the shrubbery, and Castine sprang from the ground and fell at Ferrol’s feet. Then, with a contortive shudder, he rolled over and over the steps, and lay face downward upon the ground-dead.
A girl ran forward from the trees, with a cry, pushing her way through to Ferrol’s body. Lifting up his head, she called to him in an agony of entreaty. But he made no answer.
“That’s the woman who fired the shot!” said a subaltern officer excitedly. “I saw her!”