“To hell with you, you sneaking English cur!”

“Then I travel that road not alone,” I muttered back.  “There will be one less of the devil’s brood afloat.”

What followed has to me no clearness, no consistency.  I remember, yet it is as though memory played me a thousand tricks.  Never have I fought more wickedly, nor with deeper realization that I needed every ounce of strength, and every trick of wit and skill.  I had not before dreamed he was such a man; but now I knew the fellow possessed greater knowledge of the game than I, and a quicker movement; I alone excelled in weight of body, and coolness of brain.  His efforts were those of an infuriated animal, his uncontrolled outburst of hatred rendering him utterly reckless of results in his struggle to overcome me at any cost.  It was this blind blood-lust which gave me victory.  I know not clearly how it was done; my only memory being his frantic efforts to drive home the knife point, and mine to defeat the thrust.  Twice he pricked me deep enough to draw blood, before I succeeded in twisting backward the arm with which he held the blade.  It was a sailor’s trick of last resort, heartlessly cruel in its agony, but I felt then no call to mercy.  He met the game too late, falling half back upon one knee, hoping thus to foil my purpose, yet my greater weight saved me.  There was the sharp crack of a bone, as his useless fingers let the knife drop, a snarled curse of pain, and then, with the rage of a mad dog, Sanchez struck his teeth deep into my cheek.  The sharp pang of pain drove me to frenzy, and for the first time I lost all control, my one free hand seeking to reach the lost knife.  With a thrill of exultation I gripped it, driving instantly the keen blade to its hilt into the man’s side.  He made no cry, no struggle—­the set teeth unlocked, and he fell limply back on the sand, his head lapped by the waves.

I remained poised above him, spent and breathless from struggle, scarcely conscious even as to what had occurred so swiftly, the dripping knife in my hand, blood streaming down my cheek, and still infuriated by blind passion.  The fellow lay motionless, his face upturned to the sky, but invisible except in dim outline.  It did not seem possible he could actually be dead; I had struck blindly, with no knowledge as to where the keen blade had penetrated—­a mere desperate lunge.  I rested my ear over his heart, detecting no murmur of response; touched the veins of his wrist, but found there no answering throb of life.  Still dazed and uncertain, I arose staggering to my feet, conscious at last that the man must actually be dead, yet, for the moment, so surprised by the discovery as to scarcely realize its significance.  Not that I regretted the act, not that I experienced the slightest remorse, yet, for an instant, the shock seemed to leave me nerveless and unstrung.  Only a moment since I was engaged in desperate struggle, and now I could only stare down at the dark lines of that motionless body outstretched upon the sand.