Kit's brow was dank. The man's calm terrified him.

"The others gave little trouble. They'd sabres; but only one had a pistol, and it wouldn't go off--English-like....

"Then they formed a rallying group. Yes, they formed a rallying group.

You see they were afraid....

"It was no good. I walked round them with my pistols."

Shuddering, the boy saw it all: the group of ghastly men, back to back in the hollow; silence, b.u.t.terflies, and Death in breeches and boots stalking round.

"Then they broke. They couldn't run: I could. I would have spared them, mud that they were--but for her.

"You see," his voice was still again, "I loved her."

He dreamed, his eyes upon the hills.

"Yes," he said, "I was terrible."

CHAPTER XXVIII

ON THE TOP OF THE WORLD

I

The Gentleman led up the shoulder of the hill, the tails of his long riding-coat flapping about his legs.

Kit, panting behind, admired him as he had never admired even Uncle Jacko. The man seemed to know no fear, striding rapidly on, his enemy behind him.

True, the boy's dirk still flashed in the other's hand; but the lad had his jack-knife; and his eyes dwelt on the place where he could plant it home and home in that black back--there by the seam, where it was a little worn.

And the man had the scent-bottle!

Surely a fellow would be justified....

"Now's your chance, Little Chap!" came the gay voice.

Kit, betrayed to his own soul, sn.i.g.g.e.red and put the dark thought away with shuddering disgust.

The man was a gentleman, the man trusted him. Once he had saved his life; and once spared it. Should he pay his debt with the jack-knife?

The long-striding figure went up the hill as though on wings.

Kit clambered at his spurs.

Escape he knew was vain. As well might a canary attempt to escape a hawk.

The scabbard of the other's sword poking and peeping between his tails caught the boy's eye and fascinated it. It had seen plenty that sword, he would bet! What tales it could tell!

How he should like to know!...

"Have you ever fought a duel?" he blurted out.

"Used to a bit. Not now."

"Why?--d'you think it wrong?"

The other flung back a merry laugh.

"No, my little Puritan. I gave it up, because it gave me up. You see, I never quite met my match with the small-sword. Or rather I did meet my match once, but the beggar wouldn't fight."

"Do tell," panted Kit, scenting a story.

"It was in Egypt--during the occupation. He was said to be the finest sword in the British Army--Abercromby's Black c.o.c.k, they called him.

He'd a standing challenge out against any man of ours who'd take it up. Killed seven of our fellows in seven days, a man a morning, in single combat, between the outpost lines--all fair and square and according to c.o.c.ker, and the staffs of both Armies looking on. Sounds like a legend, don't it?--The eighth day I appeared to do battle with him. I was twenty-one at the time, and looked seventeen. It was to have been the great day of my life--and was the bitterest. Directly he saw me--'I don't fight with children,' says he, high and mighty as a turkey-c.o.c.k, and turned on his heel. I wept." He laughed joyously at the reminiscence.

"Curious how small the world is," he continued. "Five years pa.s.sed-- five years full of things. Then one fine day, a few weeks back, I was over yonder at Birling Gap, waiting for a friend, when who should come strolling round the corner, smelling of roast beef and Old England, but my old friend of the curly pate and ruddy cheeks. I'd a minute or two to spare. So I introduced myself, and we adjourned to the beach at once."

"What happened that time?" asked the boy keenly.

"Why, Fat George!" replied the other. "And deuced lucky for Master Black c.o.c.k too. You see, he was fat and scant o breath."

II

They had climbed to the top of the world.

It lay spread before them, wide and wonderful; head in the heavens, feet in the sea miles beneath on every side.

On the brow beside them the blackened skeleton of a building stood up stark against the light.

The charred stump of a flag-staff p.r.i.c.ked up out of the turf. On the scorched gra.s.s lay a singed red flag and tattered pendant.

"What's this?" whispered Kit.

The ghastly desolation of the ruins amid the sea of light and living green appalled him. Moreover he smelt death.

"Signal-station," said the Gentleman, hurrying by. "Black Diamond stormed it at dusk on Sat.u.r.day night--just before I came along. They took it and burnt the men inside. Black Diamond did the storming--Fat George the burning, he and old Toadie."

"Brutes!" hissed Kit.

"I don't much care for Fat George and old Toadie myself," replied the Gentleman, rather white. "They seem to me scarcely--what shall I say?

--_spirituels_.... Black Diamond was quite a different pair of shoes. A curious nature--three parts sheer devil, one part pure gentleman. I could tell you some strange tales about him."