A heavy footstep sounded in the jungle near them, and Stenhouse, carrying two cutlasses under his arm, strode into the square and stood before Fullerton.
For a moment or two their eyes met, and then Stenhouse raised his hand and touched his distorted face.
“You know me, Mr. Fullerton?”
“I know you. You have come to kill me.”
“Yes, unless you kill me.” He drew a cutlass from its leather sheath and held its hilt out to the man he hated. Fullerton folded his arms across his chest.
“Take it,” said Stenhouse slowly, “or, by Heavens! I'll cut you down as you stand.”
“As you will,” replied the old man steadily, “but fight you I will not. My life is in your hands. Take it. I am not afraid to die.”
Stenhouse drew his cutlass slowly, his one eye shining with a deadly hatred.
“For God's sake, man, whoever you are, whatever your injuries may be, do not shed the blood of an old man on his son's grave!” and the captain sprang forward with outspread, appealing hands.
“His son!” and the point of the gleaming weapon drooped.