But his efforts were useless, for Frank--although a little pale, which showed that he knew the struggle must end in the death of one or the other of them--did not retreat an inch, but coolly parried every thrust made by his infuriated enemy, with the skill of a veteran.

The rebel was again obliged to change his plan of attack, and commenced by rushing furiously upon Frank, endeavoring to beat down his guard by mere strength.

But this proved his ruin; for Frank met him promptly at all points, and, watching the moment when the rebel carelessly opened his guard, he sprang forward and buried his bayonet to the hilt in his breast.

The thrust was mortal, and the rebel threw his arms above his head, and sank to the ground without a groan.
"I believe he's done for," said Frank to himself; and he stepped up to take a nearer look at his enemy.

There he lay, his pale face upturned, and the blood running from an ugly wound in the region of his heart.
"I do believe he _is_ dead," repeated Frank, with a shudder, as he gazed sorrowfully at he work he had done.