He stood in the middle of the short roadway which led to the drawbridge, and clearly it had within a few moments dawned upon him that _he_ was the point upon which these fatal forces were converging.

A low wall fenced him on either hand, and as he braced himself, grasping his Brown Bess--a fine picture of Duty triumphing over Irresolution--into this narrow passage poured the chase, rolled as it were in a flying heap; the hunted man just perceptibly first, the bull and Archibald Plinlimmon cannoning against each other at the entrance.

Master Archibald was hurled aside by the impact of the brute's hindquarters and shot, at first on all fours, then prone, alongside the base of the wall; but he had managed to get his thrust home, and this time with effect.

The bull tossed his head with a mighty roar, ducked it again and charged on his prey, who flung up both arms and fell spent by the sentry-box.
The sentry sprang to the other side of the roadway and let fly his charge at random as box, man, and bull crashed to earth together, and a dreadful bellow mingled with the sharper notes of splintered wood.
It was the end.

The bullet had cut clean through the bull's spine at the neck, and the crowd dragged him lifeless, a board of the sentry-box still impaled on his horns, off the legs of the black-avised man--who, at first supposed to be dead also, awoke out of his swoon to moan feebly for water.
While this was fetching, the butcher knelt and lifted him against his knee.