to losing his balance. Oxenford, rushing in, discharged a quick half-arm
blow on the Doomsman's right wrist, and the mace dropped from the
suddenly paralyzed grip. Confused and terror-stricken, Dom Gillian
dropped on all-fours, groping about in the darkness for the weapon that
had rolled away and out of immediate reach. Oxenford, drawing his knife,
struck downward, aiming for the angle of neck and collar-bone. But in
his eagerness he overshot the mark, the blade making only a trifling
flesh wound, and the next instant Dom Gillian had him in his clutch. The
two stood up together.

It seemed a long time, hours indeed, that Dom Gillian waited for his
injured wrist to recover its strength, holding Oxenford easily in his
left hand and shaking the other incessantly to restore the interrupted
circulation. Even when at last satisfied that the wrist could be trusted
to do its duty, he did not appear to be in any hurry; he seemed to be
meditating upon the most effective use to which he could apply the
advantage that he had gained. Then, suddenly, Dom Gillian bent down and
grasped his victim by the ankles, swinging Oxenford into the air as
easily as a thresher does his flail. With every muscle starting to the
strain, the Doomsman whirled his enemy's body once, twice, and thrice,
at full sweep about his head, then downward into crushing contact with
the pavement. A final superhuman effort, and the inert mass was hurled
clean over the heads of the on-lookers, falling with the dead sound of
over-ripe fruit against the wall of the White Tower.

A full minute passed, and still every eye remained fixed on Dom Gillian.
He had not moved, except to turn his head again in the direction of the
light--a dumb instinct like to the compass-needle that seeks the
magnetic pole. A colossal statue, but Constans fancied that it was
swaying at its base, then he saw the great chest heave convulsively and
a bubble of reddish foam issuing at his lips.

But the man was dying hard; in another moment he had straightened up,
and was resolutely swallowing back the salty, suffocating tide, beating
the air with his hands as he strove for breath. Only for an instant,
however, for now the tide had become a flood, and, with a little fretful
moan, like to that of a tired child, Dom Gillian, Overlord of Doom, sank
to earth, not falling headlong, as does a felled tree, but quietly
settling into a heap, just as an empty bag collapses into itself.

* *