“Confound that muff, Grosvenor!” he thought.  “If it had not been for his impertinent intrusion, the matter would have been safely settled by this time—­and settled pleasantly too, I take it; for, without being a conceited noodle, I really think Lady Louise will say yes.  Ah! what’s this?”

For out of the starlit darkness, from among the trees, started up a giant black figure, and his horse was grasped by the bridle and hurled back upon his haunches.

“You villain,” the young man dauntlessly cried, “let go my bridle-rein!  Who are you?  What do you want?”

“I’m Dick Darkly,” answered a deep, gruff voice, “and I want your heart’s blood!”

“You poaching scoundrel!” exclaimed Sir Everard, quick as lightning raising his riding-whip and slashing the aggressor across the face.  “Let go my horse’s head.”

With a cry that was like the roar of a wild beast the man sprung hack.  The next instant, with a horrible oath, he had seized the young man and torn him out of the saddle.

“I’ll tear you limb from limb for that blow, by heavens!” Dick Darkly shouted.  “If I hadn’t meant to kill you before, I would kill you for that cut of your whip.  I’ve waited for you, Sir Everard Kingsland!  I swore revenge, and revenge I’ll have!  I’ll kill you this night, if they hang me for it to-morrow!”

He held his victim in a grip of iron, from which he struggled madly to get free, while the horse, with a shrill neigh of terror, started off riderless.

“I swore I’d kill you, Sir Everard Kingsland,” Dick Darkly growled, “when you put my poor brother in Worrel Jail for snaring the miserable rabbits to keep his sick wife and children from starving.  I swore it, and I’ll keep my oath.  You told your gamekeeper this very day you would lash me like a dog, and duck me after.  Aha, Sir Everard!  Where’s the horse-whip and the horse-pond now?”

“Here!” shouted the young baronet; and with a mighty effort he freed his arms, and raising the whip, slashed Dick Darkly for the second time across the face.  “You murdering villain, you shall swing for this!”

With a blind roar of pain and rage, the murderer closed with his victim.  They grappled, and rolled over and over in each other’s arms.

Panting and speechless, the death-struggle went on; but Sir Everard was no match for the burly giant.  With a savage cry, the huge poacher thrust his hand into his belt, and a long, blue-bladed knife gleamed in the moon’s rays.

“At last!” he panted.  “I’ll have your heart’s blood, as I swore I’d have it!”

He lifted the knife.  Sir Everard Kingsland tried to gasp one last brief prayer in that supreme moment.

“Help!” he cried, with a last wild struggle—­“help! help! murder!”

There was a rustling in the trees and some one sprung out.  The last word was lost in the sharp report of a pistol, and with a scream of agony, Dick Darkly dropped his knife and fell backward on the grass.