eet ees? Eef
you make eet ze poor devval, eet show you are ze cowarde. Ha! I theenk
you do not dare to fight!"

He spat toward Merry to express his contempt.

"Let me fight him!" panted Diamond at Frank's elbow.

"See that Harris is put into the boat!" ordered Merriwell. "I fancy I
can take care of this Frenchman. If you do not get Harris into the boat
I swear I will not enter it if I conquer Montfort!"

Then he whirled on the Frenchman.

"I accept your challenge!" he cried in clear tones.

Montfort uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. He flung off his coat,
saying:

"Choose ze weapon, saire."

Frank did not pause to look them over in making a selection. He caught
up one of them and drew it from the scabbard.

Montfort took the other.

"Ready?" cried the American youth.

"Ready!" answered the Frenchman.

Clash!--the swords came together and there on the deck of the burning
steamer the strange duel began.

Frank fought with all the coolness and skill he could command. He fought
as if he had been standing on solid ground instead of the deck of a ship
that might be blown into a thousand fragments at any moment.

The Frenchman had fancied that the Yankee would prove easy to conquer,
but he soon discovered Frank possessed no little skill, and he saw that
he must do his best.

More than once Montfort thrust to run Frank through the body, and once
his sword passed between the youth's left arm and his side.

Merry saw that the Frenchman really meant to kill him if possible.

Then men were getting into the boat. There were but few seconds left in
which to finish the duel. Rattleton called to him from the, boat,
shouting above the roar of the wind:

"Finish him, Frank! Come on, now! Lively!"

The tip of Montfort's sword slit Frank's sleeve and touched his arm.

"Next time I get you!" hissed the vindictive Frenchman.

But right then Frank saw his opportunity. He made a lunge and drove his
sword into the Frenchman's side.

Montfort uttered a cry, dropped his sword, flung up his hands, and sunk
bleeding to the deck.

Merry flung his blood-stained weapon aside and bent over the man,
saying sincerely:

"I hope your wound is not fatal, M. Montfort."

"It makes no difference!" gasped the man. "You are ze victor, so I must
stay here an' die jus' ze same."

But Frank Merriwell was seized by a feeling of horror at the thought of
leaving this man whom he had wounded. In a moment he realized he would
be