They grappled, and rolled over and over in each other's arms.
Panting and speechless, the death-struggle went on; but Sir Everard was no match for the burly giant.

With a savage cry, the huge poacher thrust his hand into his belt, and a long, blue-bladed knife gleamed in the moon's rays.
"At last!" he panted.

"I'll have your heart's blood, as I swore I'd have it!" He lifted the knife.

Sir Everard Kingsland tried to gasp one last brief prayer in that supreme moment.
"Help!" he cried, with a last wild struggle--"help! help! murder!" There was a rustling in the trees and some one sprung out.

The last word was lost in the sharp report of a pistol, and with a scream of agony, Dick Darkly dropped his knife and fell backward on the grass..