The hot air grew
hotter with the fight.
To avoid being surrounded, the little band instinctively backed towards
the edge of the nullah. Diggle exulted as they were pressed remorselessly
to the rear. Not a man dreamed of surrender; the temper of the assailants
was indeed so savage that nothing but the annihilation of their victims
would now satisfy them. Yet Diggle once again bethought himself that
Desmond might be worth to him more alive than dead, and in the midst of
the clamor Desmond heard him repeat his offer of reward to the man who
should capture him.
Diggle himself resolved to make the attempt. Venturing too near, he
received an ugly gash from Desmond's pike, promising a permanent mark
from brow to chin. This was too much for him. Beside himself with fury,
he yelled a command to his men to sweep the pigs over the brink, and, one
side of his face livid with rage, the other streaming with blood, he
dashed forward at Bulger, who had come up panting to engage him.
He had well timed his rush, for Bulger's musket was at the far end of its
pendulum swing, but the old seaman saw his danger in time. With a
movement of extraordinary agility in a man of his bulk, he swung on his
heel, presenting his side to the rapier that flashed in Diggle's hand.
Parrying the thrust with his hook, he shortened his stump and lunged at
Diggle below the belt. His enemy collapsed as if shot; but his followers
swept forward over his prostrate body, and it seemed as if, in one brief
half minute, the knot of defenders would be hurled to the bottom of the
nullah.
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