And, without a word more, he commenced the attack. During the brief colloquy just detailed, he had noticed that his enemy was doubly armed, and before beginning the conflict he drew his own dagger, so that there was no greater advantage on one side than the other.

Both were admirable swordsmen, and in strength they were nearly matched; but the combat was conducted with a ferocity that almost set skill at defiance.

After the exchange of a few desperate passes, they closed; and in the terrific struggle that ensued the lamp was extinguished.

The profound darkness prevented them from seeing the frightful wounds they inflicted on each other; but both knew they were severely hurt, though each hoped he was not so much injured as his adversary.

Exhausted, at length, by loss of blood, and ready to drop, they released each other by mutual consent; and, after making a few more feeble and ineffectual thrusts, leaned upon their swords for support.

"Wilt thou yield now, villain?" demanded Osmond, in a hoarse voice. "Or must I finish thee outright?"

"Finish me!" echoed Mompesson, in tones equally hoarse. "Strike another blow against me if thou canst. But I well know thou art sped. When I have recovered breath, I will make short work with thee."

"About it quickly, then," rejoined Osmond: "I am ready for thee. But thy boast was idle. Thou art bleeding to death. Twice has my poignard pierced thy breast."

"Thou wilt never use thy poignard again. Thy left arm is disabled," rejoined Mompesson—"besides, my sword passed through thee almost to the hilt."

"It glanced from my doublet: I scarcely felt the scratch."

"'Twas a scratch deep enough to let thy life-blood out. But since thou hast more to be spilt, have at thee again!"

"Where art thou?" cried Osmond, staggering towards him.

"Here!" rejoined Mompesson, avoiding the thrust made at him, and dealing one in return that stretched his adversary lifeless at his feet.

In the exultation of the moment, he forgot his own desperate condition, and, with a fierce, triumphant laugh, set his foot upon the body of his prostrate foe.

But a mortal faintness seized him. He essayed to quit the vault—but it was too late. His strength was utterly gone. With an irrepressible groan, he fell to the ground, close beside his enemy.

There they lay, the dying and the dead, for more than an hour. At the end of that time, they were discovered by the watch.

Mompesson yet breathed; and as the torch-light fell upon the scene of horror, he slightly raised his head, and pointing to his slaughtered adversary, with a ghastly smile, expired.