Panting and speechless, the death-struggle went on; but Sir Everard was no match for the burly giant. With a savage cry, the huge poacher thrust his hand into his belt, and a long, blue-bladed knife gleamed in the moon's rays.
"At last!" he panted. "I'll have your heart's blood, as I swore I'd have it!"
He lifted the knife. Sir Everard Kingsland tried to gasp one last brief prayer in that supreme moment.
"Help!" he cried, with a last wild struggle—"help! help! murder!"
There was a rustling in the trees and some one sprung out. The last word was lost in the sharp report of a pistol, and with a scream of agony, Dick Darkly dropped his knife and fell backward on the grass.
CHAPTER VIII.
A MYSTERIOUS YOUNG MAN.
The baronet leaped to his feet, and stood face to face with his preserver. The giant trees, towering up until they seemed to pierce the sky, half shut out the moonlight, but yet Sir Everard could see that it was a slender stripling who stood before him, a slouched hat pulled far over his eyes.
"I owe you my life," he cried, grasping the youth's hand. "An instant later, and I would have been in eternity. How shall I ever thank you?"
"Don't make the attempt," replied the lad, coolly. "It was the merest chance-work in the world that sent me here to-night."