Perhaps even that iron nature was beginning to feel at last something of the dull sickness which is the fear of death.
He retreated continually, and Cleggett was smitten with the fancy to force him backward and nail him, with a final thrust, to the stump of the foremast, which had been broken off some eight feet above the deck.
But Loge, gathering his power, made a brilliant and desperate rally; twice he grazed Cleggett, whose blade was too closely engaged; and then suddenly broke ground again.

This time Cleggett perceived that he had been retreating in accordance with a preconceived program.

He was certain the man contemplated a trick, perhaps some foul stroke.
He rushed forward with a terrible thrust.

Loge, whose last maneuver had taken him within a yard of the hatchway opening into the hold, grasped Cleggett's blade in his left hand, and at the same instant flung his own sword, hilt first, full in Cleggett's face.

As Cleggett, struck in the mouth with the pommel, staggered back, Loge plunged feet foremost into the hold.