On and on came Alleyne, his jagged point now at his foeman's face, now at his throat, now at his chest, still stabbing and thrusting to pass the line of steel which covered him.

Yet his experienced foeman knew well that such efforts could not be long sustained.

Let him relax for one instant, and his death-blow had come.

Relax he must! Flesh and blood could not stand the strain.

Already the thrusts were less fierce, the foot less ready, although there was no abatement of the spirit in the steady gray eyes.
Tranter, cunning and wary from years of fighting, knew that his chance had come.