Ever since their paths had crossed
he had been conscious that he had to do with a finer, nobler nature than
his own: and Desmond's courage and skill had already frustrated him. As
he faced him now, it was with the feeling that, if this boy were killed,
a bar would be removed from his career.
Thus, on either side, it was war to the death. What Desmond lacked in
skill and experience he made up for by youth and strength. The two
combatants were thus equally matched: a grain in the scale might decide
the issue. But the longer the fight lasted the better were Desmond's
chances. He had youth in his favor. He had led a hard life: his muscles
were like iron. The older man by and by began to flag: more than once his
guard was nearly beaten down: nothing but his great skill in
swordsmanship, and the coolness that never deserted him, saved him from
the sharp edge of Desmond's blade.
But when he seemed almost at the end of his strength, fortune suddenly
befriended him. Bulger, with his clubbed musket and terrible iron hook,
had disposed of the two men who leaped with Diggle into the compound; but
there were others behind them; three men dropped to the ground close by,
and, making a simultaneous rush, bore Bulger back against Desmond,
hampering his sword arm.
One of Desmond's Sepoys sprang to the rescue, but he was too late to stem
the tide. A blow from a musket stock disabled Bulger's right arm; he lost
his footing; as he fell, his hook, still active, caught Diggle's leg and
brought him to the ground, just as, taking advantage of the diversion, he
was making exultantly what he intended for a final lunge at Desmond.
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