He said never a word, but stepped forth and looked about him. He was sobered now, as I could see from his face, which had a strange look on it.
"Ye're two rascals to one, Dick," says he, slowly, looking on the dead man on his horse which had come to a stop in the shadows.
"No," says I. "This gentleman will see fair play for us."
Grubbe took a step backward. "Sir," says he, addressing the dead man, but at that moment Calypso and her companion started and came into the open, and the moon shone on the face of the dead. Grubbe uttered a cry and turned on me. His teeth showed in a grin.
"No ghost shall haunt me, Dick," says he. "Rather shall another ghost keep him company;" and his wry neck moved horridly in the wan light.
I pointed upwards where the tobyman hung in chains, keeping his sheep by moonlight. "There's your destiny," said I, "there's your doom. Now defend ye, damn ye, for I'll not prick an adder at a disadvantage."
He drew his blade, for no man could say that Timothy Grubbe, time-server, pander, and traitor as he was, lacked courage. Suddenly he sliced at me, but I put out and turned off the blow.
"If you will have it so soon," said I, "in God's name have it," and I ran upon him.
My third stroke went under his guard and took him in the midriff. He gave vent to an oath, cursed me in a torrent, and struck at me weakly as he went down. He was as dead as mutton almost ere he reached the ground.
I have never been a man of the Church, nor do I lay any claim to own more religion than such as to make shift by when it comes to the end. No, nor do I deny that I have sundry offences on my conscience, some of which I have narrated in my memoirs. But when it comes to a reckoning I will make bold to claim credit in that I rid the world he had encumbered of Timothy Grubbe—the foulest ruffian that ever I did encounter in the length of my days on the roads.