“Ah, the Reverend Gabriel Bennet!”

He had scarcely spoken when Gabriel fell upon him like a young lion.  So sudden and impetuous was his attack that for a moment Abel was confounded.  He gave way a little, and was well battered almost before he could strike in return.  Then his strong arms began to tell.  He was confident of victory, and calmer than his antagonist; but it was like fighting a flame, so fierce and rapid were Gabriel’s strokes.

Little Malacca looked on in amazement and terror.  “Don’t! don’t!” cried he, as he saw the faces of the fighters.  “Oh, don’t!  Abel, you’ll kill him!” For Abel was now fully aroused.  He was seriously hurt by Gabriel’s blows.

“Don’t! there’s somebody coming!” cried Little Malacca, with the tears in his eyes, as the sound of a carriage was heard driving down the hill.

The combatants said nothing.  The faces of both of them were bruised, and the blood was flowing.  Gabriel was clearly flagging; and Abel’s face was furious as he struck his heavy blows, under which the smaller boy staggered, but did not yet succumb.

“Oh, please! please!” cried Little Malacca, imploringly, the tears streaming down his face.

At that moment Abel Newt drew back, aimed a tremendous blow at Gabriel, and delivered it with fearful force upon his head.  The smaller boy staggered, reeled, threw up his arms, and fell heavily forward into the road, senseless.

“You’ve killed him!  You’ve killed him!” sobbed Little Malacca, piteously, kneeling down and bending over Gabriel.

Abel Newt stood bareheaded, frowning under his heavy hair, his hands clenched, his face bruised and bleeding, his mouth sternly set as he looked down upon his opponent.  Suddenly he heard a sound close by him—­a half-smothered cry.  He looked up.  It was the Burt carriage, and Hope Wayne was gazing in terror from the window.

CHAPTER VIII.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

Hiram was summoned to the door by a violent ringing of the bell.  Visions of apoplexy—­of—­in fact, of any thing that might befall a testy gentleman of seventy-three, inclined to make incessant trips to the West Indies—­rushed to his mind as he rushed to the door.  He opened it in hot haste.

There stood Hope Wayne, pale, her eyes flashing, her hand ungloved.  At the foot of the steps was the carriage, and in the carriage sat Mrs. Simcoe, with a bleeding boy’s head resting upon her shoulder.  The coachman stood at the carriage door.

“Here, Hiram, help James to bring in this poor boy.”

“Yes, miss,” replied the man, as he ran down the steps.

The door was opened, and the coachman and Hiram lifted out Gabriel.

They carried him, still unconscious, up stairs and laid him on a couch.  Old Burt could not refuse an act of mere humanity, but he said in a loud voice,