"You do, do you?" said Dawson's voice above his head. It trembled with anger; and next moment Dawson's heels had obliterated every word. He said no more, however, but only glared at Fullarton with quivering fists. And when he had dipped a pannikin in the tea, he spilled some of it before he could set it down at Irralie's feet.
"Hopeless!" said Fullarton. "They are three to one."
"For mercy's sake try no resistance!"
"I fear it would be useless—though the sporting thing to do."
"Don't dream of it! He sticks at nothing. He has emptied a revolver upon me already!"
"Upon you?"
The words came hoarsely from a face which Irralie could scarcely recognize, so transfigured was it with horror and rage and incredulity.
"Yes! I struck him first—with the screw-end of my pommel—on the hand.
