Yet the traitor was hardly a whit behind him in rising.
Crouching low, with the knife in his hand, Cantor watched his chance to spring.
Ensign Dave's revolver lay on the ground. To take the second needed to recover the weapon would cost him his life at the point of the knife.
Cosetta, lying desperately wounded, tried to crawl over the ground a few feet in order to reach his own pistol.
"Take it!" hissed Cantor, leaping forward, panther-like, and making a sudden lunge.
Throwing up his left arm to ward off the weapon, Dave felt the sharp sting of steel in his forearm.
Heedless of his wound, Dave, with his right hand, gripped the wrist of the traitor.
It was a struggle, now, of trained athletes. Each used his left hand in struggling for the advantage, watching, warily, also, for a chance to use his feet or knees.
On the other side of the house the firing still continued.
Neither Dave nor his antagonist spoke. Silently they battled, until both went to the ground.