“Choose ze weapon, saire.”

Frank did not pause to look them over in making a selection.  He caught up one of them and drew it from the scabbard.

Montfort took the other.

“Ready?” cried the American youth.

“Ready!” answered the Frenchman.

Clash!—­the swords came together and there on the deck of the burning steamer the strange duel began.

Frank fought with all the coolness and skill he could command.  He fought as if he had been standing on solid ground instead of the deck of a ship that might be blown into a thousand fragments at any moment.

The Frenchman had fancied that the Yankee would prove easy to conquer, but he soon discovered Frank possessed no little skill, and he saw that he must do his best.

More than once Montfort thrust to run Frank through the body, and once his sword passed between the youth’s left arm and his side.

Merry saw that the Frenchman really meant to kill him if possible.

Then men were getting into the boat.  There were but few seconds left in which to finish the duel.  Rattleton called to him from the, boat, shouting above the roar of the wind: 

“Finish him, Frank!  Come on, now!  Lively!”

The tip of Montfort’s sword slit Frank’s sleeve and touched his arm.

“Next time I get you!” hissed the vindictive Frenchman.

But right then Frank saw his opportunity.  He made a lunge and drove his sword into the Frenchman’s side.

Montfort uttered a cry, dropped his sword, flung up his hands, and sunk bleeding to the deck.

Merry flung his blood-stained weapon aside and bent over the man, saying sincerely: 

“I hope your wound is not fatal, M. Montfort.”

“It makes no difference!” gasped the man.  “You are ze victor, so I must stay here an’ die jus’ ze same.”

But Frank Merriwell was seized by a feeling of horror at the thought of leaving this man whom he had wounded.  In a moment he realized he would be haunted all his life by the memory if he did so.

Quickly he caught M. Montfort up in his arms.  He sprang to the side of the steamer.  The boat was holding in for him.  His friends shouted to him.  The captain ordered him to jump at once.

“Catch this man!”

He lifted M. Montfort, swung him over the rail, and dropped him fairly into the boat!

“He has chosen,” said the captain.  “The boat will hold no more.  Pull away!”

It was useless for Frank’s friends to beg and plead.  Away went the boat, leaving the noble youth to his doom.

Forty minutes later there was a terrible flare of fire and smoke, a thunderous explosion, and the ill-fated steamer had blown up.

Harry Rattleton was crying like a baby.

“Poor Frank!” he sobbed.  “Noblest fellow in all the world—­good-by!  I’ll never see you again!”

Tears rolled down Bruce Browning’s face, and Jack Diamond, grim and speechless, looked as if the light of the world had gone out forever.