he placed himself on guard. Now, as always, the feel of the sword gave him courage.
Falcon had turned and was facing him, his weapon raised in salute. Lachlan, on guard, watched him closely—watched, waited—was struck with sudden wonder.
Gradually, yet swiftly, Falcon's countenance was undergoing an astonishing metamorphosis. The sneer was fading from his lips; the tan of his cheeks was deepening to a purplish-red; on his forehead the veins were swelling; into his eyes had crept a look of rapt, incredulous amazement.
He stood as though paralyzed, mouth open, eyes glaring; and those eyes looked past Lachlan, stared wildly, fixedly, as though they saw a ghost. In an instant Lachlan knew that this was no trick, no stratagem; yet, resisting the impulse to turn his head and glance behind him, he kept his own eyes fixed upon those of his adversary.
So for some seconds they stood, strangely rigid and immovable, like men suddenly frozen to stone. Then from some seaman in that part of the circle behind Falcon burst a hoarse cry:
"The Merry Amy! Black Lowther's ship!"
The spell was shattered. The circle of fierce faces, which a moment ago had awaited in tense, avid silence the first clash of the blades, was now a milling mass of men who surged this way and that, cursing, shouting, craning their necks, staring towards the east. Another moment, and the circle broke as most
