The contest
continued--the combatants clenched each other, and panted and groaned,
and rolled among the rocks. There was snarling and growling as of a
cur, mingled with curses in which Wolfert fancied he could recognize
the voice of the buccaneer. He would fain have fled, but he was on the
brink of a precipice and could go no farther.
Again the parties were on their feet; again there was a tugging and
struggling, as if strength alone could decide the combat, until one was
precipitated from the brow of the cliff and sent headlong into the deep
stream that whirled below. Wolfert heard the plunge, and a kind of
strangling bubbling murmur, but the darkness of the night hid every
thing from view, and the swiftness of the current swept every thing
instantly out of hearing. One of the combatants was disposed of, but
whether friend or foe Wolfert could not tell, nor whether they might
not both be foes. He heard the survivor approach and his terror
revived. He saw, where the profile of the rocks rose against the
horizon, a human form advancing. He could not be mistaken: it must be
the buccaneer. Whither should he fly! a precipice was on one side; a
murderer on the other. The enemy approached: he was close at hand.
Wolfert attempted to let himself down the face of the cliff. His cloak
caught in a thorn that grew on the edge. He was jerked from off his
feet and held dangling in the air, half choaked by the string with
which his careful wife had fastened the garment round his neck.
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