"In St. Michael's name!" cried the child, and beat Ralph Ingle lustily about the head; but Ingle swept down his chubby arms as though they had been gnats, and ran on toward the nearest gate.
When he reached the Governor's Spring, he noticed that the waters ran red with blood. By its margin two men were cutting and thrusting with sword and cutlass, while a third with hand clasped to his throat lay along the curb, his head hanging lifeless over the water.
"Help, Ralph!" came in Claiborne's voice from the group.
As he called out he retreated a step, that he might free the weapon which his adversary held engaged.
His opponent, who fought with his back to Ingle, took advantage of the retreat, and making a lunge forward, drove his sword into Claiborne's side, crying out,—
"Take that for the death of Philpotts!"
Claiborne fell, wounded.
"Wait till I get some one to hold this wriggling brat, and I'm with you."
So far Ingle had gone in his speech when the foeman turned, and Ingle saw that in front of him which made his cheek blanch and his heart fail and his knees totter under him, for there stood a dead man waving a sword and making ready for a thrust at his heart, while Cecil shouted aloud with joy,—