“We can leave the mare to crop.  There’s a hollow, not thirty yards off, that’ll do for us.”

Zeb led the way to the spot.  It was indeed the fosse of a half-obliterated Roman camp, and ran at varying depth around a cluster of grassy mounds, the most salient of which—­the praetorian—­still served as a landmark for the Porthlooe fishing boats.  But down in the fosse the pair were secure from all eyes.  Not a word was spoken until they stood together at the bottom.

Here Zeb pulled out his watch once more.  “We’d best be sharp,” he said; “you must start in twenty minnits to get to the church in time.”

“It would be interesting to know what you propose doing.”  The stranger sat down on the slope, picked a strip of sea-weed off his breeches, and looked up with a smile.

“I reckon you’ll think it odd.”

“Of that I haven’t a doubt.”

“Well, you’ve a pair o’ pistols i’ your pockets, an’ they’re loaded, I expect.”

“They are.”

“I’d a notion of askin’ ’ee, as a favour, to give and take a shot with me.”

The stranger paused a minute before giving his answer.

“Can you fire a pistol?”

“I’ve let off a blunderbust, afore now, an’ I suppose ’tis the same trick.”

“And has it struck you that your body may be hard to dispose of?  Or that, if found, it may cause me some inconvenience?”

“There’s a quag on t’other side o’ the Castle[1] here.  I han’t time to go round an’ point it out; but ‘tis to be known by bein’ greener than the rest o’ the turf.  What’s thrown in there niver comes up, an’ no man can dig for it.  The folks’ll give the press-gang the credit when I’m missin’—­”

“You forget the mare and cart.”

“Lead her back to the road, turn her face to home, an’ fetch her a cut across th’ ears.  She always bolts if you touch her ears.”

“And you really wish to die?”

“Oh, my God!” Zeb broke out; “would I be standin’ here if I didn’?”

The stranger rose to his feet, and drew out his pistols slowly.

“It’s a thousand pities,” he said; “for I never saw a man develop character so fast.”

He cocked the triggers, and handed the pistols to Zeb, to take his choice.

“Stand where you are, while I step out fifteen paces.”  He walked slowly along the fosse, and, at the end of that distance, faced about.  “Shall I give the word?”

Zeb nodded, watching him sullenly.

“Very well.  I shall count three slowly, and after that we can fire as we please.  Are you ready?—­stand a bit sideways.  Your chest is a pretty broad target—­that’s right; I’m going to count. One—­two—­three—­”

The word was hardly spoken before one of the pistols rang out.  It was Zeb’s; and Heaven knows whither his bullet flew.  The smoke cleared away in a blue, filmy streak, and revealed his enemy standing where he stood before, with his pistol up, and a quiet smile on his face.