The vigour and
valour of a reconquered youth seemed to inspire him; he felt as he did
when a mere boy fighting on the Danube. His blood rioted in his veins;
his eyes flashed. He lifted the flask of whiskey and gulped down great
mouthfuls of it, and fired again and again, laughing madly.
"Let them come on, let them come on," he cried. "By God, I'll settle
them!" The frenzy of war possessed him. He heard the timber crash
against the door--once, twice, thrice, and then give away. He swung
round and saw men's faces glowing in the light of the fire, and then
another face shot in before the others--that of Vanne Castine.
With a cry of fury he ran forward into the doorway. Castine saw him at
the same moment. With a similar instinct each sprang for the other's
throat, Castine with a knife in his hand.
A cry of astonishment went up from the officers and the men without.
They had expected to see Nic; but Nic was on his way to the horse beneath
the great elm tree, and from the elm tree to the State of New York--and
safety.
The men and the officers fell back as Castine and Ferrol clinched in a
death struggle. Ferrol knew that his end had come. He had expected it,
hoped for it.
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