There was a deep gash in the breast of the dead man, and blood upon the floor.
"Accursed spy and traitor," cried Mompesson, as he took hold of the body by the heels and dragged it to one corner--"thou wilt never betray me more.

What brought thee here I know not, unless it were to meet the death thou hast merited at my hands.

Would a like chance might bring Osmond Mounchensey here--and alone--I would desire nothing more." "Be thy wish gratified then!" cried a voice, which Mompesson could not mistake.
Looking up, he beheld his enemy.
In an instant his hand was upon his sword, and the blade gleamed in the lamp-light.

Osmond had likewise plucked forth his rapier, and held a poignard in his left hand.

For a few moments they gazed at each other with terrible looks, their breasts animated with an intensity of hatred which only mortal foes, met under such circumstances, can feel.