A Silver Brand — page 187: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

( Aa ‘Sd ot L i ‘ * f ow 4 ‘ A SILVER BRAND, 179 tion, which thrust it into the earth as its master’s arm was doubled under him. Nat heard the snap ‘of the brittle metal, and gave one gasp of thanksgiving. The chances were even once more, for his own. hand was wrenched away from the brawny throat. Another series of rolling, and twisting, and desperate struggles, but Nat’s strength was failing fast, and the other seemed to understand it. What then was his intense relief to hear a hurrying step crunching the pebbly shore around the point. ‘“Help! help!” shouted Nat. Then for the first time he heard the other’s voice, and recognized it, for the man jerked out a sharp oath. “Hotit 1s you, Jack Robinson,” panted Nat. ‘‘I can - understand the grudge that makes you wiiling to kill me, but why you should want-that writing-desk is a mystery.” ‘The young man sent me for it,” quoth Robinson, sul-— lenly, still holding his grip. ‘“You’d better leave me to take it.” | , By this time the footsteps had sounded nearer and nearer, and a tall, dark figure looked down wonderingly — upon them. “Tina! Lina!” called a frightened wistful voice. “Penelope Foss!” exclaimed Nat, joyfully, ‘‘help me! Take the box yonder, and hurry with it back to White’s, and send the man down tome. Hly—lose no time! Itis a desperate wretch Lam struggling with.” She had evidence of this last, for the’ infuriated Robin- son nearly strangled the last words in poor Nat’s throat, and the struggle was renewed again with redoubled fury. Trembling in every limb, Penelope took up the writing- desk, and went dashing away. It was half an hour be- fore she could reach the cottage, from which she had stolen out at midnight, and rouse the sleeping men, and it was nearly an hour before she led them to the spot. No sound of struggle, of defeat, or victory came to them as the little ' party tramped breathlessly around the ledge. For a mo- ment they believed that both combatants had vanished. Then suddenly Penelope, with a horrified cry, sprang for- ward to a long and stirless figure stretched upon the sand. “By Heaven we are too late!” cried White. “It is Nat!” Yes, it was Nat, bruised, bloody, and cold as ice, lying there with closed eves and breathless lips. White looked around fiercely and his companions rushed to examine every possible spot of concealment, but with- out any discovery of the miscreant. Penelope ran for water, and begn chafing the chilly Gomicbooks Coir