My uncle was too old and feeble to be a match for the wiry little warrior in leather.
As they separated, my uncle seemed to be wounded, for he staggered an instant, and then fell backward, staining the cloth like an overturned bottle of red ink.
"You scoundrel!" I cried, starting forward in anger; "what have you done?"
For a moment the little fellow had no breath to answer. He panted helplessly, and at length gasped out:
"It is—but—justice! It is Trancastro!"
"BEFORE I COULD INTERFERE THEY WERE FIGHTING FOR THEIR LIVES."
"Trancastro!" I exclaimed—"that was my uncle! Explain!—I can not understand!"
"Do you know what dnax is?" he asked, as he wiped his sword on a napkin.