His bullet struck me somewhere, but I took no heed of that.  Fearing only his escape, I laid my horse across the way, and with the limb of oak struck full on the forehead his charging steed.  Ere the slash of the sword came nigh me, man and horse rolled over and well-nigh bore my own horse down with the power of their onset.

Carver Doone was somewhat stunned, and could not arise for a moment.  Meanwhile I leaped on the ground and awaited, smoothing my hair back, and baring my arms, as though in the ring for wrestling.  Then the little boy ran to me, clasped my leg, and looked up at me, and the terror in his eyes made me almost fear myself.

“Ensie dear,” I said quite gently, grieving that he should see his wicked father killed, “run up yonder round the corner, and try to find a pretty bunch of bluebells for the lady.”  The child obeyed me, hanging back, and looking back, and then laughing, while I prepared for business.  There and then I might have killed mine enemy with a single blow while he lay unconscious, but it would have been foul play.

With a sullen and black scowl, the Carver gathered his mighty limbs and arose, and looked round for his weapons; but I had put them well away.  Then he came to me and gazed, being wont to frighten thus young men.

“I would not harm you, lad,” he said, with a lofty style of sneering:  “I have punished you enough for most of your impertinence.  For the rest I forgive you, because you have been good and gracious to my little son.  Go and be contented.”

For answer I smote him on the cheek, lightly, and not to hurt him, but to make his blood leap up.  I would not sully my tongue by speaking to a man like this.

There was a level space of sward between us and the slough.  With the courtesy derived from London, and the procession I had seen, to this place I led him.  And that he might breathe himself, and have every fibre cool, and every muscle ready, my hold upon his coat I loosed, and left him to begin with me whenever he thought proper.

I think he felt that his time was come.  I think he knew from my knitted muscles, and the firm arch of my breast, and the way in which I stood, but most of all from my stern blue eyes, that he had found his master.  At any rate, a paleness came, an ashy paleness on his cheeks, and the vast calves of his legs bowed in, as if he were out of training.

Seeing this, villain as he was, I offered him first chance.  I stretched forth my left hand as I do to a weaker antagonist, and I let him have the hug of me.  But in this I was too generous; having forgotten my pistol-wound, and the cracking of one of my short lower ribs.  Carver Doone caught me round the waist with such a grip as never yet had been laid upon me.

I heard my rib go; I grasped his arm and tore the muscle out of it[2] (as the string comes out of an orange); then I took him by the throat, which is not allowed in wrestling, but he had snatched at mine; and now was no time of dalliance.  In vain he tugged and strained and writhed, dashed his bleeding fist into my face, and flung himself on me with gnashing jaws.  Beneath the iron of my strength—­for God that day was with me—­I had him helpless in two minutes, and his fiery eyes lolled out.