The combatants surged and swayed back and forth along the dusty road, tripping and stumbling in vain efforts to throw each other to the ground.  Their danger lent them strength, and their hatred skill.  At last, after protracted efforts, they fell and rolled over and over, now one on top, now the other.  Suddenly and as if by a single impulse changing their tactics, their right hands unclasped and began to feel each for the other’s throat.  A sudden slip of David’s hold permitted the doctor to turn him over, and sprawling across his breast he pinioned him to the earth.  His great hand stole toward the throat of his prostrate foe and fastened upon it with the grip of an iron vise.

The beautiful face turned pale, then grew purple.  This would have been the last moment in the life of the Quaker had not his right hand, convulsively clawing the road, touched a piece of broken rock.  It was as if a life-line had swung up against the hand of a drowning man.

Through the body which had seemed to be emptied of all its resources, a tide of reserve energy swelled, under the impulse of which the exhausted youth untwisted the grip of the iron hand, flung off the heavy body, mounted upon it, crowded the great head with its matted hair and staring eyes down into the dust, seized the stone with his right hand, raised it, and struck.

The effect of the blow was twofold—­paralyzing the brain of the smitten and the arm of the smiter.  Across the low forehead of the quack it left a great gaping wound like a bloody mouth.  A death-like pallor spread itself over his countenance, the lids dropped back and left the eyes staring hideously up into the face above them.

David’s arm, spasmodically uplifted for a second blow, was suspended in air.  He did not move for a long time; and when at length his scattered senses began to return he threw down the stone, rose to his feet and exclaimed in accents of terror, “My God!  I have killed him.”

He could not overcome the fascination of the lifeless face and wide-staring eyes.  They drew him towards them; he stooped down and felt for the pulse, which was imperceptible; laid his hand upon the heart, but could not feel it beat; he raised an arm, and it fell back limp and lifeless.

Suddenly one elemental passion gave place to another.  Horror had displaced anger, and now in its turn gave way to the instinct of self-preservation.  He looked toward the carriage and saw that Pepeeta had fallen into a swoon.  “Perhaps she has not seen what has happened,” he said to himself, and a cunning smile lit up his pale face.

Stooping down, he seized the loathsome object lying there in the dust of the road and dragged it off into the thick shrubbery.  Stumbling along, he came to a hollow made by the roots of an upturned tree.  Into this he flung the thing, hastily; covered it with moss and leaves, and stood staring stupidly at the rude sepulchre.  He experienced a momentary feeling of relief that the hideous object was out of sight; but the consciousness of his guilt and his danger soon surged back upon him like a flood.  In such moments the mind works wildly, like a clock with a broken spring, but sometimes with an astonishing accuracy and wisdom.