“By God—I know you a fool!”
“Stand out of my way!” and the messenger made a step forward, but the other seized him by the arm.
“Do you think,” he cried fiercely, “that I am going to let you go? By Heaven—I have not waited here for nothing.”
The King’s messenger wrenched himself free: “Spy—who betrayed us?” he burst forth, and he gave a wild glance round the desolate fen; the other seemed to read his thoughts.
“There is no ambush,” he said scornfully, “’tis you and I alone. Who think you is the better man? Will you try issues with me?”
The King’s messenger an instant studied his opponent; he saw a man of regal height and make, whose face was hidden by his drooping beaver and whose figure was shrouded in a heavy traveling cloak; a hopeless look crossed his face; he stepped back desperately.
“You or I,” he said through his teeth—“Well—” he put his hand to his bosom and there was the dull gleam of metal. But the other had marked his action and instantly his hand flew from his cloak; there was the flash and report of a pistol-shot and the King’s messenger fell backwards silently into the mist.
“How is William of Orange served now?” cried the man peering forward; his smoking pistol in his hand, “where are you, you popish dog?”
He sprang forward through the pools and morasses, and confused by the gathering gloom, stumbled over the body. The King’s messenger had fallen prone, his head down among the mud and stones; his slayer lifted him up, and taking his face in his hands peered down into it.
The Jacobite was quite dead; from a little hole in his temple the thin black blood trickled; it had been a true shot; the man who held him smiled.