or free his own head from Fatia Negra's embrace,
though again and again he ducked down to do it; and then they would
struggle more fiercely than ever, on their knees, with their limbs
interlaced like one single, inseparable quivering mass of flesh.

"'If I could only see your hidden face!' roared Juon, throwing himself
with all his might on Black Mask. 'You devil, you, I'll tear your
mummery off for you!'--and he gnashed at his opponent's face with his
teeth, trying to snap his mask off.

"This attempt seemed to redouble Fatia Negra's fury. He too now began
roaring like a wounded bear, struggling with a huntsman. It was no
longer a struggle between men, but a ravening of two beasts. The
combatants had now rolled far away from the hut. Their savage yells
resounded through the still pastures. We, watching them from the hut,
could see that they were drawing near the edge of a steep abyss with a
sheer descent of many fathoms, at the bottom of which are the sources of
the little mountain streams.

"'Take care, Juon!' cried Mariora despairingly. But her voice was
unheard. Both of them were deaf and blind. The next moment Juon gave his
adversary a fierce shake and instantly the pair of them plunged head
over heels into the gulf below.

"We both rushed after them, and on reaching the edge of the abyss
perceived one shape lying motionless among the rocks of the stream, and
another limping painfully towards the further shore. This second figure
was Fatia Negra."

"Surely Juon was not dead?" cried Henrietta, horrified.

"No; only crippled by the fall. He fell undermost, the other on top. Yet
the other must have suffered severely. We could see from his heavy
movements that he had more than one limb damaged. Only with the utmost
exertion did he manage to scale the opposite cliff.

"While he was clambering up the mountain-side, Mariora sobbing and
screaming, rushed down to her insensible husband, and taking his head
into her bosom dragged his limp body out of the cold water of the brook,
whilst I took down from the beech-tree Fatia Negra's double-barrelled
musket and raised it to my cheek. Before me on the white rock, in the
full light of the moon, a good mark for a marksman was that panting
black object struggling upwards. I pointed the barrel straight at him. I
took a long and careful aim. I am certain I should have hit him. And
then I bethought me how much I had loved him once upon a time, and the
weapon sank down. I flun