Carne wrenched at his dagger, but failed to
draw it, and the two strong men rolled on the grass, fighting like two
bull-dogs. Reason, and thought, and even sense of pain were lost in
brutal fury, as they writhed, and clutched, and dug at one another,
gashing their knuckles, and gnashing their teeth, frothing with one
another's blood, for Carne bit like a tiger. At length tough condition
and power of endurance got the mastery, and Twemlow planted his knee
upon the gasping breast of Carne.
"Surrend," he said, for his short breath could not fetch up the third
syllable; and Carne with a sign of surrender lay on his back, and
put his chin up, and shut his eyes as if he had fainted. Twemlow with
self-congratulation waited a little to recover breath, still keeping
his knee in the post of triumph, and pinning the foe's right arm to his
side. But the foe's left hand was free, and with the eyes still shut,
and a continuance of gasping, that left hand stole its way to the left
pocket, quietly drew forth the second pistol, pressed back the hammer on
the grass, and with a flash (both of eyes and of flint) fired into the
victor's forehead. The triumphant knee rolled off the chest, the body
swung over, as a log is rolled by the woodman's crowbar, and Twemlow's
back was on the grass, and his eyes were closed to the moonlight.
Carne scrambled up and shook himself, to be sure that all his limbs were
sound. "Ho, ho, ho!" he chuckled; "it is not so easy to beat me.
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