Above, on the crest of the field, where a band of men had begun to
scramble at the sentinel's halloo, there sat on a white pony the
bright-robed figure of the tall fanatic, Fang the Sword-Pen.
"He did it!" Heywood's hands opened and shut rapidly, like things out of
control. "Oh, Wutz, how did they--Saint Somebody--the martyrdom--
Poussin's picture in the Vatican.--I can't stand this, you chaps!"
He snatched blindly at his gun, caught instead one of the compradore's
halberds, and without pause or warning, jumped out into the shallow
water. He ran splashing toward the bank, turned, and seemed to waver,
staring with wild eyes at the strange Tudor weapon in his hand. Then
shaking it savagely,--
"This will do!" he cried. "Good-by, everybody. Good-by!"
He wheeled again, staggered to his feet on dry ground, and ran swiftly
along the eastern wall, up the rising field, straight toward his mark.
Of the men on the knoll, a few fired and missed, the others, neutrals to
their will, stood fixed in wonder. Four or five, as the runner neared,
sprang out to intercept, but flew apart like ninepins. The watchers in
the boat saw the halberd flash high in the late afternoon sun, the
frightened pony swerve, and his rider go down with the one sweep of that
Homeric blow.
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