Miridoff flung back his cloak and drew a pistol from his belt. Realising that a fraction of a second's delay would cost him his life, Fenton hurled himself bodily forward and pinned the Grand Duke's arms to his sides. The impact carried them back close to the edge of the precipice. The revolver Miridoff had drawn fell from his grasp and clattered on the rocky path.
"Presumptuous, meddling fool!" exclaimed the Grand Duke, straining to loosen the hold of his young adversary. "It is fitter that you die this way than that I should soil my sword."
"Trickster, traitor, assassin!" answered Fenton, exerting the utmost of his strength to maintain his hold on his powerful adversary. "You'll never live to complete your theft of a bride! Before you die—I want you to know—that we took the lodge an hour ago. The wireless is in our hands. Before I throw you over the cliff, think of this—your plans will miscarry, you will be remembered in Ironia as—the man who tried to sell his country!"
Fenton's breath had come in puffs; it was difficult to speak when he needed all his energies for action.
They struggled back and forth. Both were powerful men; Miridoff had the advantage in weight and strength, but Fenton was the more lithe and active. They were well matched. Almost on the edge of the precipice they fought it out, a grim struggle to the death. Once Fenton's foot slipped over the edge, but he regained his firm footing on the ledge again almost instantly. Miridoff, hampered by his cloak, managed to free himself from its folds. It fell under their feet and nearly ended the fight by tripping them both.
Fenton fought with calculating coolness, but his mind was in a turmoil. If he could master this man the happiness of the princess would be assured, for it would give him an opportunity to carry out the plan that had flashed through his mind a few minutes before. If he failed to conquer the Grand Duke, then Olga was lost.
The thought spurred him to something like super-human efforts. He struggled fiercely, animated with a determination to kill his adversary. He became the physical embodiment of that one idea. Miridoff must be put out of the way.
The darkness closed down more dense than ever over the tightly clenched figures. They swayed this way and that, careless of death that faced them both if they went a foot too far. At intervals Fenton caught fleeting glimpses of the red glow which he knew to be Hawk's Rest, where perhaps Olga was now waiting—unconsciously waiting the outcome of the struggle.
*****
Then it became apparent that the equality of the struggle had ceased. One of the antagonists had secured a hold on the other's throat. The beaten man struggled backward to escape from the relentless grip of his opponent. His effort was successful. He broke away free. But his foot was over the edge. His effort to free himself had carried him back too far. An instant he swayed uncertainly on the edge, then fell backward.