a sobbing
moan, struck mortally in the head. Ezra sprang to his feet and rushed
at the ambuscade, while the sergeant, who had been grazed on the cheek
by the first volley, jumped from his horse and followed him. Burt and
Farintosh met them foot to foot with all the Saxon gallantry which
underlies the Saxon brutality. Burt stabbed at the sergeant and struck
him through the muscle of the neck. Farintosh fired at the policeman,
and was himself shot down by Ezra. Burt, seeing his companion fall,
sprang past his two assailants with a vicious side blow at the merchant,
and throwing himself upon the sergeant's horse, regardless of a bullet
from the latter's revolver, he galloped away, and was speedily out of
range. As to Williams, from the beginning of the skirmish he had lain
face downwards upon the ground, twisting his thin limbs about in an
agony of fear, and howling for mercy.

"He's gone!" Ezra said ruefully, gazing after the fugitive. "We have
nothing to go after him with."

"I'm well-nigh gone myself," said the policeman, mopping up the blood
from his stab, which was more painful than dangerous. "He has given me
a nasty prod."

"Never mind, my friend, you shall not be the loser. Get up, you little
viper!"--this to Williams, who was still writhing himself into the most
extraordinary attitudes.

"Oh, please, Mr. Girdlestone," he cried, clutching at Ezra's boots with
his long thin fingers, "it wasn't me that hit you. It was Mr. Burt.
I had nothing to do with robbing you either. That was Mr. Farintosh.
I wouldn't have gone with him, only I knew that he was a clergyman, so I
expected no harm. I am surprised at you, Mr. Farintosh, I really am.
I'm very glad that Mr. Girdlestone has shot you."

The ex-parson was sitting with his back against a gnarled stump, which
gave him some support. He had his hand to his chest, and as he breathed
a ghastly whistling sound came from the wound, and spirts of blood
rushed from his mouth. His glazed eyes were fixed upon the man who had
shot him, and a curious smile played about his thin lips.

"Come here, Mr. Girdlestone," he croaked; "come here."

Ezra strode over to him with a face as inexorable as fate.

"You've done for me," said Farintosh faintly. "It's a queer end for the
best man of his year at Trinity--master of arts, sir, and Jacksonian
prizeman. Not much worth now, is it? Who'd have thought then that I
should have died like a dog in this wilderness? What'