Dr. Syn stepped out into his garden and surveyed with every mark of pleasure the bright spring morning. Not a sign of his night's exertions could be traced as he briskly walked amongst the flowers, picking the best blooms for a birthday bouquet.
He passed on into the squire's garden, and stepped to the open french window greeted the family at breakfast.
“My dear Charlotte, I have picked a few flowers from my garden,” he said, “with an old man's blessing on this important birthday.”
“Oh, I am entirely spoilt!” laughed Charlotte, who ran round the table, took the flowers, pressed them to her face, and curtsyed. “I accept the lovely gift, but not the description you give with it. An old man's blessing. Why, my dear godfather, I never saw anyone look more sprightly. Now, don't go hunching your shoulder up and trying to look old.”
“But I want to look old in order to claim an old man's privilege, my dear,” he said, smiling. “I should like to be the first outside the family to salute you, and also I claim the privilege of a godfather to give you a gift that will be more to your liking than a few Marsh flowers.”
“Nothing could be more to my liking, believe me, and please let me kiss you for them,” she answered.
So, much to the amusement of her sisters and mother, Charlotte kissed Dr.
Syn and then asked him to kiss her.
“Well, here is the gift,” he said, laughing, and handed her the red sachet.
“Oh, and my initials on it!” cried Charlotte. “Oh, Doctor, did you work this? No. It is too neat for a man's sewing.”
“Bless you, I'm an old traveller. I had to learn to sew after a fashion. But open it, please.” Dr. Syn watched her face as she bent down towards the sachet.
The beauty and obvious value of the pearls set everyone gasping, including the delighted Charlotte.
Cicely chuckled. “You are not going to tell us that you value the Marsh flowers as much now, I hope.”
“Flowers and jewels are both beautiful,” answered Charlotte, “and I value them both for themselves and for the kind heart that gives them.” When Dr. Syn had confided the history of the pearls and had hung them round Charlotte's neck with his blessing, he handed the log-book to the squire.
“Well, there's no doubt,” exclaimed Sir Antony, “that Charlotte lives up to your dead captain's hopes. Let us quote what he says: 'Perhaps in years to come these stones will once more adorn the neck of a beautiful woman. I pray God that her mind be beautiful too.' Well, I think we agree that, despite her looks, Charlotte's mind is at least beautiful.
“But she can be dashed obstinate at time,” added the squire. “But since you are her advocate, we'll allow them that she deserves the pearls. Secondly, there is no doubt that you, Doctor, by virtue of being the sole survivor of the captain's brig, become his lawful heir, and have therefore every right to give them to Charlotte if you so wish.” Now although the whole village from the squire down seethed with excitement that day, an exception must be made of Dr. Syn. The events of the night before seemed to interest him not at all. He spent the day largely in the pleasant company of Charlotte Cobtree, for, as he put it, 'a twenty-first birthday is a very great occasion'. The dinner hour having been postponed till a late hour that day, the early evening found the doctor on his white pony riding beside Charlotte, and although many times upon the ride he had entreated her not to bother about his slow jogging but to enjoy a gallop, she refused to ride from him.
“Well, you are twenty-one, Charlotte,” replied Dr. Syn. “You have every right to please yourself. Thank you very much.” For some time they rode forward at a gentle walk, and Dr. Syn's thoughts began to concentrate upon the new life of adventure that seemed to have been thrust upon him.
It was she who interrupted his train of thought with: “Oh, Doctor, whatever makes you scowl like that? Have you forgotten it is my birthday?”
“No, Charlotte,” he answered, smiling, but without looking at her. “But when you get to middle age the past has a way of obtruding itself, and to men who have lived an adventurous life it is generally the unpleasantnesses of the past that thrust themselves to the front. A young girl like you could not be expected to understand the depressions that come with middle age.”
“No?” she queried. “Perhaps I understand these depressions—in you— better than you imagine. Perhaps I understand more than anyone else where you are concerned, and the reason is that I am certain no one loves you more than I do.”
“That is very kind of you, my dear,” replied the doctor. He did not dare look back at her, but kept his pony just a little ahead. But she watched him closely.
“You see,” she went on, “my father is your oldest friend and I am, in many ways his confidante. Do you suppose then that both loving you as we do, we have not been guilty of discussing you? We have, and I know as well as he does of the tragedy that drove you to America.”
“That is all finished. It is a closed book,” said Syn simply.
“Not quite, is it?” went on Charlotte. “Now that I am grown up, may I claim the privilege of telling you what I think? From what my father has told me, you were influenced to go abroad in a spirit of revenge. It was natural that when your wife betrayed you, all your love for her should be killed. You never blamed her, so my father tells me, but on the man, who had been your friend, you were determined to heap punishment. Unsuccessful in this, at last even that passion died in you, and you return to start life again with us. Why do you not accept that fact that your wife is dead, Doctor?”
“Because it is not right to accept a fact that is only told by a liar and a cheat,” he answered. “If I were to marry again and there was a child, and then my wife was found to be alive after all, what of my child then? What of the woman that had given it to me?”
“It would be but a legal quibble to make it wrong,” replied Charlotte. “For my part, I would break any law for the sake of the man I loved.”
The tone of her voice was so compelling that Dr. Syn checked his pony and looked at her. She, too, drew rein involuntarily and met his gaze, leaning slightly towards him from the saddle. Her face was above him, for she rode a man's horse and he was crouched on his pony.
For a few long seconds their eyes met, and with a grave glowing hers took hold and clung to his, binding him to her as the hands do in matrimony.
Instinctively the doctor was disarmed. He felt the warm blood of youth once more in his veins. Was it possible that this beautiful girl loved him? As he asked himself the question, she answered it with a slow nod and added: “I would take the risk. I love you.” He felt his back straighten, he knew his eyes glowed as hers did.
Subconsciously, he cursed the secrets that compelled him to ape an older man.
He longed to change his pony for the fierce black horse he had conquered in the night. He wanted to appear to her the man of adventure that he was. And that very want betrayed him, for he dismounted like a young man and stood beneath her, drinking her in as, leaning forward, she let her curl brush his face.
“Why don't you say what is in your heart?” she urged.
“I can say that,” he whispered. “Yes, at least I can say that with all honesty.
I love you. But in all honour I can never ask you to marry me. I would to God I could.”
“Because your wife may be alive?” she asked.
“There are other things,” he went on. “Aye, things black and damnable. Did you know the half of them, you would turn from me.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” she said quietly. “For now in all fairness, I have the right.”
“Aye, were the secrets mine, you should share them. But I put others on their oath never to tell those secrets, even to their wives.”
“They were men, then—these sharers of your secrets? I am glad of that, for I began to be jealous. And do they live—these men? Could you not ask them to release you?”
“I believe the most of them are dead. But an oath is an oath from which even death could not release us.” She bowed her head slowly, dismissing all desire to know, since he had sworn to keep silence. Then she laid one hand upon his shoulder and added:
“Even though you say these things were black and damnable, I do not blame you, for my heart tells me that in all your life you could never have done anything except your honour forced you.”
“Thank God, I can say aye to that,” he answered. “In the worst moments of my poor life, when my hands were stained with blood, my honour drove me to it. A rough-hewn honour it may have been, for I was then amongst savage men.
In the Last Day I shall have no fear in answering the Judge's charge on that score, but to tie you to such a man—who cannot share his memories with you— my honour forbids that, my dear.”
“But suppose my honour is rough-hewn, too?” Her fingers gripped his shoulders tightly. “Suppose I confess that were you the worst of criminals standing with a noose around your neck upon the open scaffold, I should still be proud to say 'I love you'.”
“Good evening, Vicar. Good evening, Miss Cobtree.” Out of the flatness of the Marsh a third party had appeared. Hidden by the height of Charlotte's horse, and having taken advantage of the cover of a deep dyke that ran all the way from the high road to Mother Handaway's field-bound cottage, Merry had approached unseen, and quietly walked round the head of Charlotte's horse upon them.
“Good evening, Mr. Merry,” she said, in a voice clear of any embarrassment. The love that had shown from her eyes during her confession still danced in them. She had not troubled to alter her expression. Mr. Merry might have been her dearest confidant for all the trouble she took to disguise her feelings.
With the doctor it was different. Automatically, imperceptibly and yet rapidly he changed. When he turned towards Merry he was the kindly, elderly parson with something of a stoop that was so familiar a figure to all on Romney Marsh. He looked at Merry's sea-boots, wet with dyke water, and his kindly eyes took on an expression of reproof.
“You ought to know better, my man, than to spring out of a hiding-place without warning when a sensitive animal like Miss Charlotte's horse is standing near. It was foolish. I thought you had horse sense.” Without waiting for his reply, he turned to Charlotte's horse and ran his hand beneath the girth. “No, it is not too tight, my dear, though perhaps the saddle needs adjusting.”
“Help me dismount, then,” she said, “and while you fix it, I will just run over the field to speak to poor Mother Handaway. Lift me, please,” she pleaded, “for if I jump I may trip in my skirt and roll into Mr. Merry's dyke.” She laid her hand on Dr. Syn's shoulder and turned to Merry. “By the way, what were you doing in the dyke? Catching something?”
“Avoiding someone,” answered Merry, turning his head towards Mother Handaway's cottage. Then he pointed. “Him, to be exact.”
“That man on the horse coming towards us? Why?”
“Ah! You don't know who he is. Neither of you know. But I know. I keeps an eye open on Romney Marsh, and there ain't much I don't know. And I knows that I ain't stopping around to be shot at by no jocular highwayman.”
“Highwayman?” repeated Charlotte, with no hint of the usual shudder which was customary amongst women as well as many men at the very mention of the word.
“Ay, and it's the famous Jimmie Bone, if you want to know,” whispered Merry. “For a long time I've wished to see him unmasked, and up by the cottage I did. He was arguing with the old witch. Something about a stable that he could no longer use, and he seemed very put out. There's a hundred pound on his head from the authorities, but I ain't waiting to tell him so.” And leaving the horse's head, Merry slithered down the dyke bank and plunged into the cover of the rushes.
Jimmie Bone saw the man?uvre, and checked his horse, while he tucked his three-cornered hat under his arm for the few seconds required in which to adjust a black mask that covered him to the mouth. Then clapping his spurs he put his horse at the intervening dyke, cleared it and galloped to the next, taking it with an ease that showed consummate horsemanship. In a few seconds he was alongside the dyke in which Merry was plunging, and had pulled from his holster a long pistol. Dr. Syn noted that Mr. Bone rode a black horse, not unlike Gehenna, who had apparently forestalled his stable, and remembering Grinsley's black mount, he told himself that black horses were evidently in fashion amongst the local rogues.
“Now then, what's the game? Come out of it, you water rat,” cried the highwayman to Merry. “Trying to cheat an honest gentleman of the road from his lawful dues, is it? Come on, it's your money or your life, so fork out and sharp's the word.”
“Come on, Mr. Bone, is it likely as though I had money?” whined the terrified Merry.
“Likely? I should say it's certain,” replied the highwayman, “considering as how you ain't the cove to do something for nothing and you was give a gold spade for carryin' a message from certain gents I knows in Rye—aye, a message to yonder old Mother at the cottage, and considering you showed her that same guinea and there ain't no inn between there and here where you could spend it, considerin' all that, I says stump up sharp.”
“And not so free with your Mr. Bone,” cut in the highwayman. “We've never been interdooced to my knowledge, and I've no wish to know yer better, although I'll be obliged to be better acquainted with that there guinea. Toss her up.”
“I'm a poor man—” said Merry, reluctantly holding out the guinea piece.
“And I'll be the richer by a guinea,” laughed the highwayman stretching his hand down and taking the coin reluctantly held out to him. “And now, you stop over this side of the dyke while I deals with these others. Why, sakes alive, if it ain't a parson! Now why the devil couldn't you have been anything but that, and an old 'un, too.” For while the highwayman had been attending to Merry, Dr. Syn had taken the opportunity of putting on his reading spectacles. “Oh sakes, had you been a justice of the peace, a well-fed lawyer, or even some portly merchant from London city, why then I'd have robbed you willingly.
Why, I never yet have robbed a parson. A selfish virtue, sir, but if I did it 'ud be the ruin of all good luck that seems to stand as faithful by me as the horse I ride. Now, the lady is different. I'll relieve you, miss, of the pretty pearl string around your neck, which I see you have taken pains to hide as far as possible beneath your kerchief. I'll come over for it.” Jimmie Bone turned his horse and rode in a circle back towards the dyke, which he leapt in style. He was now separated from Merry by the water, but upon the same meadow as the others.
He now rode towards them with his horse-pistol presented.
Now although the last thing Charlotte wanted was to lose her precious pearls, it was not fear for their safety that now clutched at her heart, but for the danger towards which Dr. Syn was walking. He certainly looked old and very forlorn, as he limped slowly across the rough grass to meet the highwayman, who reined in his horse and waited.
“No nearer, reverend sir,” warned Mr. Bone.
Dr. Syn stopped and blinked through his glasses at the black mask. “I have always heard it said of you, Mr. Bone,” he replied in a quavering voice, “that as robbers go, you have at least something honourable about you. I do not exactly agree with your mode of life. Naturally, my profession forbids me to go so far, but I have always been pleased to hear you praised for a certain dare-devilry which every Englishman admires. And just as you have an aversion to rob or illtreat me because of my black cloth, so have I an aversion to killing you sitting there so magnificently on that fine animal. Whether you will get Miss Cobtree's pearls remains to be seen, but it is quite certain that you will have to fight me first.”
Mr. Bone laughed. “Do you mean a duel, reverend sir? Is it possible that you carry a piece of artillery in one of those long pockets?” Dr. Syn shook his head, blinked through his spectacles, and continued nervously. “No, no. I do not carry a pistol. Though, strange as it may seem to you, I know a good deal about them, and was at one time accounted a reasonable performer. I take it now, Mr. Bone, that the pistol you are presenting at my head at the moment is made more to intimidate than to give an exhibition of accurate shooting.”
“It shoots straight enough, though,” replied Mr. Bone, “as you might find to your cost did you attempt to cross me too far.”
“Might find, eh?” replied Dr. Syn. “So you allow that there is room for doubt. I take it that you would not feel too secure in using such a weapon for a duel?”
“Since you are so insistent—well, no. I should use one of these in that case.” And Mr. Bone drew from his sash a very fine duelling-pistol.
“Ah, that's a weapon,” exclaimed Dr. Syn. “That only demands a sense of direction, and a steady squeeze on the trigger. Are you an infallible shot, Mr. Bone?”
“What do you mean?” he demanded. “I can hit a mark nine times out of ten.”
“A mark may be large or small,” replied the vicar, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Make it large enough to see and I'll hit it,” said the highwayman.
“I will,” answered Dr. Syn. “Now, it is a virtue of mine, and of my rapacious coat pockets, that I never stir abroad without a good piece of chalk, a length of pack thread, and a good sharp knife. Whenever I see a good stick or a pliable twig, I think of my young rascals in the parish who are for ever crying out for whips, cudgels, or fishing-rods. My knife”—he fumbled in his side pocket and produced it—“is, as you see, a good one. It is strong, it is sharp, and what is so important, it is admirably balanced. It is a knife to throw, Mr. Bone, and, like your pistol, I shall boast of it that nine time out of ten it hits the mark.
I am beholden to a dreadful rascal for the instruction—a Chinaman, Mr. Bone —and it has amused me to keep in practice a hobby that has on several occasions saved my life. Now, before we begin to settle this business concerning Miss Cobtree's pearls, I will lay you a guinea against the one you have appropriated from poor Merry there, that I will throw more accurately than you can shoot. Don't be alarmed, I beg. The crack of a pistol will excite no comment on Romney Marsh. A rabbit, or a water-rat—why, the boys will shoot at them, you know. Besides, look around you. As far as the eye can see, there is not a human being but ourselves. You would have ample time on that delightful horse to make good your escape. Here's the chalk. I make a mark on this old gate-post. So! Now, Mr. Bone, make good your boast.” Mr. Bone chuckled beneath his mask. “You're a queer cove, ain't you? Well, I'll win your guinea and then take the lady's pearls.” He thrust the cumbersome horse-pistol into the holster and leapt to the ground. “And what distance must we set for that stake, Mr. Parson?”
“You see the chalk mark. It is not large, I admit. Make it whatever you please and take the first shot.” The highwayman looked at the parson suspiciously. But the sight of so much blinking senility disarmed suspicion. Mr. Bone was a big man, tall, broad, and athletic. One blow from his great fist would catapult the frail parson across the dyke. He walked back some yards from the post, followed by his black horse, who in turn was followed by the black-garbed parson.
“I think that far would be accounted a good shot, eh?” asked the highwayman.
“Just as you like,” replied the parson. “The light is good, with the sun behind us.” The highwayman muttered something to his horse, who obediently knelt down. Mr. Bone also crouched on one knee and steadied his pistol upon the saddle.
“Here, you,” he called out to Merry. “Get on that mound there and keep a sharp look out. I have no mind to be taken through this folly.” Merry walked to the mound in question, but he was more interested in the fate of his guinea, and he looked for danger behind the highwayman's back, so that he could watch the shooting.
After a considerable time taken in shuffling himself into a position of comfort, Jimmie Bone took long and deliberate aim, the crack of the shot rang out and he got up from his knees.
“I think I have driven in the very centre of your chalk-mark,” he chuckled.
“I think that you have gone so wide that you have missed the mark entirely,” chuckled the parson. “Aye, post and all.”
“I tell you I can see a mark in the centre of the cross,” exclaimed the marksman.
“I think you'll find that it is just a mark in the wood. I fear you've gone wide. You shall have nine more shots to hit, if you wish to make good your word. Nine out of ten, you said.”
“I'll find the bullet in the post first, before I waste more powder,” snapped Mr. Bone, stepping over the prostrate horse and walking to the post.
However, he found that the parson was right in that the centre of the cross was a piece of faulty wood that had not taken the chalk. He began to run his hand slowly down the post, stopping his finger upon every mark in the hope of discovering the passage of his bullet. It annoyed him to fail in front of this parson and the pretty girl.
Charlotte, meanwhile, was watching Dr. Syn and saw what the highwayman had got his back to. Syn's left had drew the horse-pistol from the holster and with a sudden jerking swing flung the knife with full force.
With an oath the highwayman sprang aside, only to find his movement arrested by his coat, for as his hand had lingered on the thick post, the flying knife was driven right through the stiff buckrammed slack of his broad laced cuff.
“I found your sleeve a more tempting mark, Mr. Bone,” said Dr. Syn, advancing to the impaled highwayman with the horse-pistol levelled.
“Here's your guinea,” cried the baffled highwayman, “or do you mean to try for the hundred guineas the authorities have put upon my capture?” He tossed the guinea towards the parson who caught it and threw it to Merry.
“Oh, dear, no, Mr. Bone. I only wished to point out that when you levelled this piece of inaccurate artillery at my head, I was not taken at such a disadvantage as you thought. Indeed, I should very much dislike you to flatter yourself upon that point.”
“That pistol's accurate enough, with luck,” grumbled Jimmie Bone, “so unless you're out to kill me, keep your finger off the trigger.”
“Have no fear, Mr. Bone,” replied Dr. Syn. “I am well used to pistols, and really could not have missed that post after such preparations. I congratulate you, though, upon the admirable way you have trained your horse. However, we must now deal with Miss Cobtree's pearls, which, as I said, you will have to fight to get. Keep your hand away from that knife, Mr. Bone, for a moment.
Come across the water, Mr. Merry. You will act for Mr. Bone, no doubt, while Miss Cobtree will act for me. This shall be all in order, Mr. Bone. A fair fight.
And I assure you the pearls are worth the fighting for. Several thousands of pounds they would fetch in the London market. But when I tell you that they were given to Miss Cobtree for her birthday today, perhaps your sense of fairness will make you withdraw your threat and ride away in peace.”
“Miss Cobtree, eh?” repeated Mr. Bone. “She'd be the daughter of Cobtree the magistrate, and ain't he the cove what has put a hundred guineas round my neck? It seems to me, then, not unfair for me to take several thousand guineas from his daughter's neck.”
“As you please, Mr. Bone, and always supposing you can make good your boast, which I am at liberty to doubt after the failure of your former boast. Mr. Merry, you will pluck out my knife there, while I help Miss Cobtree to dismount.”
He backed towards the horses, still keeping the highwayman covered with the pistol, while Merry splashed his way across the dyke to get the knife.
Charlotte leaned from her horse with one arm round the vicar's shoulder, and as he lifted her to the ground she whispered: “Why not send him packing? You have the pistol and I the pearls.”
“Because I have the wish to show you that you have not given your love to a weakling, my dear.” She was about to speak in answer when Merry, who had pulled out the knife from the post and thereby released Mr. Bone's cuff, suddenly sprang at the highwayman with the knife raised.
With a savage curse, Mr. Bone ducked, caught Merry with one arm around the waist, and with the other hand twisted the wrist till the knife dropped. He then drew back, and with a sledge-hammer blow knocked Marry backwards into the water.
“That was just, Mr. Bone. He deserved it for treachery,” said Dr. Syn.
“Aye, he was tempted by that hundred pounds alive or dead that old Cobtree has put up. Well, he ain't earned it yet, I think. And now what, Master Parson?”
“You have a good punch, I see, which I shall do well to avoid,” chuckled Dr.
Syn. “I remember now that you were something of a heavyweight before you took to the road. You knocked out the Camberwell Smasher at Tunbridge Fair, if I recollect.”
“That's it, and my advice to you is not to tempt me to deal with you as I dealt with him,” laughed Mr. Bone. “I'd rather have them pearls without a fight and ride off peaceful.”
“Possibly, but oh no,” laughed the doctor. “At least, I shall be very surprised if you do ride off with the pearls. But I'll take off my glasses and my coat. I should suggest you take off your riding-coat.”
“I'll keep it on,” replied the highwayman. “When I have finished with you, and let us hope the damage done will not affect your preaching, I shall take the pearls and ride away before you raise the alarm.”
“Oh, but there is to be no alarm, I assure you,” corrected the parson. “This is but a friendly bout, I hope, and I wish you would not boast so of the pearls.” Dr. Syn folded his coat and laid it tidily on the grass. “Well, if you will not remove your coat, at least take off your mask. It gives me so much to aim at.”
“Do you really mean that we are to fight with fists?” asked the amazed highwayman, seeing that the parson was calmly rolling up his shirt-sleeves, and opening and shutting his hands as he blinked at them.
“But, my dear Mr. Bone, you see I have got ready. We will fight to a finish.
A knock-out and with fists. The usual ten to be counted. Slowly, my dear Charlotte.”
“Well, it is not my habit to linger too long in one spot,” said the highwayman. “True, there's no one visible at the moment likely to cause me trouble, but away yonder towards Dymchurch, there's a clump of trees behind which one cannot see, and I've been warned that the Dragoons are out. So come along, my gallant game-cock, and let us hope your preaching will be better than your fighting.”
“Oh, I hope it is,” replied Dr. Syn devoutly, taking a few steps forward and then awaiting attack in a somewhat awkward attitude of defence.
“It will be no disgrace to say you've been worsted by Gentleman James,” laughed Bone, advancing.
“You are sure you would not prefer to remove your mask?” asked the waiting parson timidly.
“I only removes it amongst relations, and they are all dead. I have no wish to give away a description of my beauty.”
“Oh, but your heavy boots and spurs,” pleaded Dr. Syn.
“Used to 'em. I notice you keep on your buckled shoes. I likes fighting shod, like you.” Mr. Bone suddenly rushed. Dr. Syn stood his ground, and though Charlotte was terrified at the tornado attack of the great highwayman, she was surprised to see him stagger back with his hand on his jaw. Dr. Syn had apparently parried the sledge-hammer blows, and struck once, but the stroke got home. It enraged the highwayman, for he leapt forward again and clinched. Dr. Syn seemed mildly surprised at this form of attack. His arms were tied by the great bulk of his antagonist. He seemed to have no space in which to hit. For the moment it seemed that Mr. Bone had got it all his own way, and wishing to finish the comedy and pay the parson back with interest for the lucky blow on his chin, he tried to hold the parson with his left arm while withdrawing his right for a smash-out blow.
What followed was too quick for Charlotte to understand. But the highwayman missed his blow and Syn was clear of that crushing left arm. His knuckles had managed to inflict a murderous jab into Bone's ribs, and as the highwayman's fist whistled past his side-jerked head, up came the parson's left and reached the same spot on the jaw. Mr. Bone cried out in surprise and pain, and, recovering his balance, followed up Dr. Syn, who had leapt clear. But unwilling to admit to another of those grim clinches, the parson played for defence, parrying the mighty blows with apparent coolness, but retreating steadily round and round before the infuriated rushes.
At every attack it seemed that the slim figure of the parson must be overwhelmed, and yet his face remained untouched, and even his wig, which he had not removed, was still sitting tidy and tight upon his head, and as blow after blow was rained at him, the parson's face was ever guarded and the blows turned aside.
From a distance it would have seemed that the highwayman was getting it all his own way, because of the other's persistent retreats. After each attack, he leaped back to avoid another clinch.
Mr. Bone felt the blood trickling down his neck, and this infuriated him. He now attacked with lower blows, and at last landed a murderous stroke into the parson's ribs. Dr. Syn leapt back, pressing his hand against the spot and drawing in his breath with an audible hiss. It may have been a sporting instinct on the part of Mr. Bone to let the parson recover himself, or it may have been that he took a few seconds to recover himself for a further effort to drive home that advantage, but it is certain that the big man held back for a few definite seconds, breathing hard. Dr. Syn used the pause first by calmly lifting his wig from his head and throwing it clear away upon the grass. He then appeared to Charlotte and Merry to be using his brain and taking the measure of Bone's fighting qualities. He knew, therefore, that his best policy was to fight as he had been doing on the defensive and at all costs to keep clear till he had worn down his antagonist's patience and strength.
It so happened, however, that the pause had placed Dr. Syn facing the distant clump of Dymchurch trees, and since the highwayman had his back to them, he did not see what the parson did—for between the trees the setting sun was flashing upon the brass helmets and breastplates of the Dragoons.
Now Dr. Syn had only to mention the fact to Mr. Bone to terminate the fight. What was more to the point, he could finish the fight as victor and by picking up the pistol which had laid beneath his coat, he could order Mr. Bone to mount without the pearls and to ride for his life.
Against this was his desire to finish the fight under Charlotte's eyes, and it was this that made him risk Mr. Bone's safety.
Once more he threw himself into an attitude of self-defence. Once more Mr. Bone advanced, preparing to launch himself in a tornado attack. But, instead, he was met in full career by a second tornado. Dr. Syn had sprung into the attack like a mad hurricane, and Mr. Bone got a taste of his own smashing method before he was aware that such a thing existed. Back he was driven with well-landed blows, steadily back towards the dyke.
“Mind the water, man!” cried Dr. Syn, after sending him reeling to the very bank.
But the highwayman was game. He rushed again, only to be met by the parson's counter-rush. Down went Mr. Bone, blinded with blood that soaked down through his silk mask.
Charlotte forgot to count. Dr. Syn had to do it slowly, with one eye on the giant upon the turf and the other towards the Dragoons.
On the ninth count, however, Mr. Bone once again showed fight. Leaping to his feet, he rushed the parson. A quick sidestep and a lightning left hook to the jaw followed almost instantaneously by a punishing jab to the ribs with his right, left Dr. Syn standing the victor, for Mr. Bone uttered a sigh of pain, sank on his knees, and then collapsed.
