longer gleamed, but was warm and slippery in his fingers. Poleon
held Stark's gun, which was empty and smoking.

The fight had not lasted a minute, and yet what terrible havoc had
been wrought! The gambler was drenched with his own blood, which
gushed from him, black in the yellow flicker, and so plentifully
that the Frenchman was befouled with it, while Gale, too, was
horribly stained, but whether from his own or his enemy's veins it
was hard to tell. The trader paid no heed to himself nor to the
intruders, allowing Burrell to push him back against the wall, the
breath wheezing in and out of his lungs, his eyes fastened on Stark.

"I got you, Bennett!" he cried, hoarsely. "Your magic is no good."
His teeth showed through his grizzled muzzle like the fangs of some
wild animal.

Bennett, or Stark, as the others knew him, lunged about with his
captor, trying to get at his enemy, and crying curses on them all,
but he was like a child in Poleon's arms. Gradually he weakened, and
suddenly resistance died out of him.

"Come away from here," the Lieutenant ordered Gale.

But the old man did not hear, and gathered himself as if to resume
the battle with his bare hands, whereupon the soldier, finding
himself shaking like a frightened child, and growing physically weak
at what he saw, doubted his ability to prevent the encounter, and
repeated his command.

"Come away!" he shouted, but the words sounded foolishly flat and