As Gascoyne still advanced, Henry pointed the pistol straight at his breast and pulled the trigger, but no report followed; the priming, indeed, flashed in the pan, but that was all!

With a cry of rage and defiance, Henry leaped upon Gascoyne like a young lion.  He struck at him with the pistol; but the latter caught the weapon in his powerful hand, wrenched it from the youth’s grasp, and flung it to the other end of the apartment.

“You shall not escape me,” cried Henry, aiming a tremendous blow with his fist at Gascoyne’s face.  It was parried, and the next moment the two closed in a deadly struggle.

It was a terrible sight for the widow to witness these two herculean men exerting their great strength to the utmost in a hand-to-hand conflict in that small hut, like two tigers in a cage.

Henry, although nearly six feet in height, and proportionally broad and powerful, was much inferior to his gigantic antagonist; but to the superior size and physical force of the latter he opposed the lithe activity and the fervid energy of youth, so that to an unpractised eye it might have seemed doubtful at first which of the two men had the best chance.

Straining his powers to the utmost, Henry attempted to lift his opponent off the ground and throw him.  In this he was nearly successful.  Gascoyne staggered, but recovered himself instantly.  They did not move much from the center of the room, nor was there much noise created during the conflict.  It seemed too close—­too full of concentrated energy, of heavy, prolonged straining—­for much violent motion.  The great veins in Gascoyne’s forehead stood out like knotted cords; yet there was no scowl or frown on his face.  Henry’s brows, on the contrary, were gathered into a dark frown.  His teeth were set, and his countenance flushed to deep red by exertion and passion.

Strange to say, the widow made no effort to separate the combatants; neither did she attempt to move from her seat to give any alarm.  She sat with her hands on the table clasped tightly together, gazing eagerly, anxiously, like a fascinated creature, at the wild struggle that was going on before her.

Again and again Henry attempted, with all the fire of youth, to throw his adversary by one tremendous effort, but failed.  Then he tried to fling him off, so as to have the power of using his fists or making an overwhelming rush.  But Gascoyne held him in his strong arms like a vice.  Several times he freed his right arm and attempted to plant a blow; but Gascoyne caught the blow in his hand, or seized the wrist and prevented its being delivered.  In short, do what he would, Henry Stuart could neither free himself from the embrace of his enemy nor conquer him.  Still he struggled on; for, as this fact became more apparent, the youth’s blood became hotter from mingled shame and anger.