out in a sob of rage, “Will nothing make you fight, man?”
“I rather thought we had been fighting all this while,” replied the
Doctor.
With his back to the wall, the Squire fought wildly, and with a last
despairing effort tried to break the other’s guard.
“Attack him now! cried Cobtree. “You have him at your mercy.”
“Which I will show up to a point,” replied Syn, doggedly defending.
“I do not wish to kill him suddenly. His soul is in bad case, and I
would give him time to repent upon his death -bed. Bring me more light,
here, Tony, and I will do it skillfully.”
Before Cobtree could pick up one of the heavy candelabras, the
Squire, with his last ounce of strength, attacked again. Syn guarded
himself with the same persistence he had used throughout, and then, as
the wavering candlelight flickered towards them, he suddenly changed his
tactics and attacked with the same lightning fury as the Squire had
done.
Now, whether what followed happened through a cunning design of the
Squire’s who at least knew that he could depend upon the honour of the
parson, or from the superior skill of Doctor Syn, but ere Tony could
reach them with the lights the Squire’s sword shot high over Doctor
Syn’s head and fell with a clatter on the floor behind h im.
“You have him now!” cried Tony.
The Squire crouched panting against the paneling, breathing hard.
Doctor Syn retreated slowly, facing the Squire, until he passed the
fallen sword.
Then, with a superb gesture of command, he pointed to it with his own
weapon and said, “Pick it up.”
“And you’ll spit me as I do it,” snarled the Squire ungenerously.
“Had that been my way, I could have done it easier three seconds ago,”
replied the Doctor.
To gain time and recover his gasping breath, the Squire slowly
straightened himself, wiped the sweat from his brow, and then advanced
towards his sword with weary steps.
“Make haste sir,” cried Syn, “lest my patience snap. But I have no
interest to kill a man unarmed.”
Since everyone’s eyes were up on him, no one saw or heard the secret
panel behind the Squire’s back slide open. It was Syn who first saw the
farmer standing there. The Squire was about to pick up his sword when
the parson said, “For heaven’s sake, look behind you!”
“Another trick to catch me unawares?” sneered the Squire.
“I have never tricked you,” replied Syn. “I have fought fair. But
it seems that other hands than mine must kill you.”
The Squire realized that all eyes were upon something behind his
back, and so he slowly turned.
A bewildered look came over the Squire’s face as he tried to
recollect where he had seen this man before who now faced him with a
leveled pistol in his hand and grim, determined hate upon his face. He
was not long in doubt.
“I am Esther Sommer ’s father,” he said, in a hoarse whisper. “I have
come to
- 42 -
put Paid to your account.”
A flash, a deafening report, and then, amidst a stench of gunpowder,
they saw the Squire’s great body crumple down the boards. Nothing moved
save the twitching of his sword-hand and the curling smoke from the
steady barrel of the pistol.
It was a strange voice that brought the onlookers back to a state of
reality.
“This looks to me like murder.”
The speaker, who was quietly closing the door through which he had
entered, was richly dressed. He was short in stature, but broad shouldered and heavily built. His complexion was browned from foreign
sun, and his gold ear-rings indicated the sea as a profession. Unlike
the prevailing fashion, he wore his hair short-cropped and his black,
pointed beard gave him more the appearance of an Elizabethan than a
Georgian. While he smiles, as he was doing then, and showed his fine
white teeth, he was not unattractive. About the age of Doctor Syn, he
looked older, for he had lived hard and run the pace. His bearing
conveyed a recklessness which to feminine eyes at least appeared
romantic. Booted and spurred, he carried his riding cloak over his arm,
but as he advanced easily into the circle of light he tossed it from him
to a distant chair. It was then that Imogene recognized him, for with a
cry of joy she sprang forward, seized his hands in hers and said,
“Nicholas!”
“Of course,” observed Syn to Tony. “It is the Squire’s nephew.”
“And come in the nick of time to close my uncle’s eyes, it seems.”
His manner was almost jocular as he set the girl aside, with a
friendly patting of her hands, and surveyed the dying man upon the
floor.
Not even the pains of death which gripped him could disguise the
hatred of the Squire as he asked, “Have you come to crow at my death,
young cockerel?”
“I hurried from Spain, sir,” replied the nephew, “in response to your
last letter threatening to cut me off from the estate. I took the
precaution of calling upon the family lawyer in London, and no doubt you
will be desolated to learn that you have no means of carrying out such a
piece of petty spite. He was setting out for Oxford tomorrow in order to
inform you of this himself, but, as you see, I have forestalled him with
the good news.”
“I would have made him find the means,” replied the Squire.
“I rather think that the little misfortune which I see you in, dear
Uncle, will give me the estate within the hour. I have seen death writ
on faces before now.”
“Aye, I am done for this time,” went on the Squire, speaking with
increasing difficulty. “Had I lived tonight, I would have married the
girl, whom you had lost to the parson there. I warrant her child have
been a bar to your inheritance.”
“What does he mea n, Imogene?” asked the nephew.
“It means, Nicholas, that I am betrothed to Doctor Syn,” she
answered. “Tonight my mother and myself were brought here forcibly, but
Doctor Syn and Mr. Cobtree came to rescue us. Your uncle tried to kill
my lover, who pr oved himself the better swordsman. Indeed, your uncle
was disarmed when the shot was fired.”
Nicholas looked at the man who still held the pistol. “Why, it’s
Sommers. You lived across the river. I remember. You had a daughter.
I warned my uncle at the time that his peccadilloes would get him into
trouble. I think I heard she died.”
“Aye,” replied Sommers. “He killed her.”
- 43-
“So you kill him,” said Nicholas. “Well, all I can say, my friend,
is that you are in something of a fix. A duel’s a duel, and murder’s
murder.”
“I’ll swing for it if needs be. I am glad,” replied Sommers.
“Tut, man, let’s have no more corpses. While uncle obliges me by
dying as quickly as he can, I’ll think what’s best to do.”
As a reproof to his c allous hatred for his uncle, Doctor Syn took
cushions from chairs and propped the dying man into a more comfortable
position.
“Leave me alone,” said the Squire. “But give me wine.”
Imogene poured it out and took it to him. He tried to drink, but
could not. Instead he muttered to her through his clenched teeth:
“Will you tell me something, child?”
“What is it?” answered Imogene.
“That fellow Sommers,” he went on with an effort. “Regard him well,
and tell me how came such an ugly devil to possess so beautiful a
daughter. Yes, Sommers, your Esther was a pretty wench. I wonder now if