“Wilt thou yield now, villain?” demanded Osmond, in a hoarse voice.  “Or must I finish thee outright?”

“Finish me!” echoed Mompesson, in tones equally hoarse.  “Strike another blow against me if thou canst.  But I well know thou art sped.  When I have recovered breath, I will make short work with thee.”

“About it quickly, then,” rejoined Osmond:  “I am ready for thee.  But thy boast was idle.  Thou art bleeding to death.  Twice has my poignard pierced thy breast.”

“Thou wilt never use thy poignard again.  Thy left arm is disabled,” rejoined Mompesson—­“besides, my sword passed through thee almost to the hilt.”

“It glanced from my doublet:  I scarcely felt the scratch.”

“’Twas a scratch deep enough to let thy life-blood out.  But since thou hast more to be spilt, have at thee again!”

“Where art thou?” cried Osmond, staggering towards him.

“Here!” rejoined Mompesson, avoiding the thrust made at him, and dealing one in return that stretched his adversary lifeless at his feet.

In the exultation of the moment, he forgot his own desperate condition, and, with a fierce, triumphant laugh, set his foot upon the body of his prostrate foe.

But a mortal faintness seized him.  He essayed to quit the vault—­but it was too late.  His strength was utterly gone.  With an irrepressible groan, he fell to the ground, close beside his enemy.

There they lay, the dying and the dead, for more than an hour.  At the end of that time, they were discovered by the watch.

Mompesson yet breathed; and as the torch-light fell upon the scene of horror, he slightly raised his head, and pointing to his slaughtered adversary, with a ghastly smile, expired.

THE END.