Then death stalked abroad again, but this time in a form that awoke the watcher’s deep-rooted instincts, took him clean out of himself, and angered him to passion, not in his own cause but another’s.  There came the sudden scream of a trapped hare,—­that sound where terror and agony mingle in a cry half human,—­and so still was the hour that Blanchard heard the beast’s struggles though it was fifty yards distant.  A hare in a trap at any season meant a poacher—­a hated enemy of society in Blanchard’s mind; and his instant thought was to bring the rascal to justice if he could.  Now the recent footfall was explained and Will doubted not that the cruel cry which had scattered his reveries would quickly attract some hidden man responsible for it.  The hare was caught by a wire set in a run at the edge of the wood, and now Blanchard crawled along on his stomach to within ten yards of the tragedy, and there waited under the shadow of a white-thorn at the edge of the woods.  Within two minutes the bushes parted and, where the foliage of a young silver birch showered above lesser brushwood, a man with a small head and huge shoulders appeared.  Seeing no danger he crept into the open, lifted his head to the moon, and revealed the person and features of Sam Bonus, the labourer with whom Will had quarrelled in times long past.  Here, then, right ahead of him, appeared such a battle as Blanchard had desired, but with another foe than he anticipated.  That accident mattered nothing, however.  Will only saw a poacher, and to settle the business of such an one out of hand if possible was, in his judgment, a definite duty to be undertaken by every true man at any moment when opportunity offered.

He walked suddenly from shadow and stood within three yards of the robber as Bonus raised the butt of his gun to kill the shrieking beast at his feet.

“You!  An’ red-handed, by God!  I knawed ’t was no lies they told of ’e.”

The other started and turned and saw who stood against him.

“Blanchard, is it?  An’ what be you doin’ here?  Come for same reason, p’r’aps?”

“I’d make you pay, if ‘t was awnly for sayin’ that!  I’m a man to steal others’ fur out of season, ban’t I?  But I doan’t have no words wi’ the likes o’ you.  I’ve took you fair an’ square, anyways, an’ will just ax if you be comin’ wi’out a fuss, or am I to make ’e?”

The other snarled.

“You—­you come a yard nearer an’ I’ll blaw your damned head—­”

But the threat was left unfinished, and its execution failed, for Will had been taught to take an armed man in his early days on the river, and had seen an old hand capture more than one desperate character.  He knew that instantaneous action might get him within the muzzle of the gun and out of danger, and while Bonus spoke, he flew straight upon him with such unexpected celerity that Sam had no time to accomplish his purpose.  He came down heavily with Blanchard on top of him, and his weapon fell from his hand.  But the poacher was not done with.  As they lay struggling, he found his foot clear and managed to kick Will twice on the leg above the knee.  Then Blanchard, hanging like a dog to his foe, freed an arm, and hit hard more than once into Sam’s face.  A blow on the nose brought red blood that spurted over both men black as ink under the moonlight.