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.