groan, and the next moment the remaining officer, a man of herculean strength had closed upon him.  Terrible was now the struggle—­the officer had dexterously struck the knife from his hand as he closed with him, but he could not draw his pistols.  Locked in each other’s grasp they wrestled together for life:  each one well knew that death would be the lot of the vanquished,—­the officer burning to revenge his comrade’s death:—­Hunter struggling for life and his cherished vengeance.  Gradually they approached the spot where the agent sat watching the conflict with terrible anxiety, so absorbing as to make him forgetful of the pain of his wound; here, by a tremendous effort the officer succeeded in throwing his antagonist; falling, however, with him.  Hunter made desperate efforts to rise, but getting within reach of the agent in the struggle, Lambert seized his hair, and held his head firmly down; to master his hands now, and slip a pair of handcuffs over his wrists, was, to the powerful and practised officer, the work of a moment,—­and furious with passion, but exhausted by the struggle, Hunter lay upon the earth, a captive.

‘A game fellow,’ said the officer, wiping the perspiration from his brow, ’and strong as a bear, but I’ve tackled as tough hands as him in my day, and so has poor Bill Maddox there.  I hope the Earl will settle a good pension on his widow—­it will be sad news for her and her four poor children:—­stone dead.  He took the famous highwayman, Jack Blount summut in this way, five years ago.  Well, he’s gone, and as the tide is coming in, we had best be smart.  That shot was unlucky for you, Mr. Lambert, but such accidents will happen.  You behaved beautifully.  I’m blowed if I thought you so fly to these things.  Poor Bill—­we can’t move him until next tide, but sea-water can’t hurt him now.  I must rouse this chuckle-headed yokel and get him to help me.’  So saying, the veteran thief-catcher lighted a dark lantern, and taking some water sprinkled it freely over the head and face of Curly Tom.  The fellow returned to consciousness, and gazed around him—­a look of ferocious joy animated his eyes, as he saw that Hunter was taken, and drinking the brandy he had reserved unmixed in the cup, he professed his readiness to help them.

Leaving him to guard the prisoner, first, however, removing Hunter’s remaining pistol, and even securing the discharged one, the sturdy official took the wounded agent on his back, and crept out of the cavern.  He soon returned, and with Tom’s assistance removed Hunter also, who now from the combined effects of exhaustion, liquor and the opiate, was fast becoming insensible.  Leaving one of his pistols with the agent, in case of treachery on the part of Tom, he once more returned, and taking off the outer clothing of the dead man, fastened a cord to his feet, and tied it firmly round a piece of rock near by.  He was too used to scenes of blood to shed a tear, but he shook the dead man’s hand and said, ‘Poor