MacIan glanced again at that silver anklet of sea-water and then looked beyond at the next promontory round which a deep sea was boiling and leaping.  Then he turned and looked back and saw heavy foam being shaken up to heaven about the base of Cragness Point.

“The sea has cut us off,” he said, curtly.

“I have noticed it,” said Turnbull with equal sobriety.  “What view do you take of the development?”

Evan threw away his weapon, and, as his custom was, imprisoned his big head in his hands.  Then he let them fall and said:  “Yes, I know what it means; and I think it is the fairest thing.  It is the finger of God—­red as blood—­still pointing.  But now it points to two graves.”

There was a space filled with the sound of the sea, and then MacIan spoke again in a voice pathetically reasonable:  “You see, we both saved her—­and she told us both to fight—­and it would not be just that either should fail and fall alone, while the other——­”

“You mean,” said Turnbull, in a voice surprisingly soft and gentle, “that there is something fine about fighting in a place where even the conqueror must die?”

“Oh, you have got it right, you have got it right!” cried out Evan, in an extraordinary childish ecstasy.  “Oh, I’m sure that you really believe in God!”

Turnbull answered not a word, but only took up his fallen sword.

For the third time Evan MacIan looked at those three sides of English cliff hung with their noisy load of life.  He had been at a loss to understand the almost ironical magnificence of all those teeming creatures and tropical colours and smells that smoked happily to heaven.  But now he knew that he was in the closed court of death and that all the gates were sealed.

He drank in the last green and the last red and the last gold, those unique and indescribable things of God, as a man drains good wine at the bottom of his glass.  Then he turned and saluted his enemy once more, and the two stood up and fought till the foam flowed over their knees.

Then MacIan stepped backward suddenly with a splash and held up his hand.  “Turnbull!” he cried; “I can’t help it—­fair fighting is more even than promises.  And this is not fair fighting.”

“What the deuce do you mean?” asked the other, staring.

“I’ve only just thought of it,” cried Evan, brokenly.  “We’re very well matched—­it may go on a good time—­the tide is coming up fast—­and I’m a foot and a half taller.  You’ll be washed away like seaweed before it’s above my breeches.  I’ll not fight foul for all the girls and angels in the universe.”

“Will you oblige me,” said Turnbull, with staring grey eyes and a voice of distinct and violent politeness; “will you oblige me by jolly well minding your own business?  Just you stand up and fight, and we’ll see who will be washed away like seaweed.  You wanted to finish this fight and you shall finish it, or I’ll denounce you as a coward to the whole of that assembled company.”