He fought as a man who must, not as one who glories in it, and
it was well for Rosmore, perhaps, that it was so. It was for Barbara
Lanison that he fought, the conviction in his mind that now or never
must she be saved. No other way seemed open. It was of her he
thought--of all she must have suffered, of the despicable trickery which
had been practised upon her, of the fate which awaited her if she were
not rescued. He loved her, that was as sure as that he lived, but it was
not his love he thought of just then. As Rosmore once more attacked him
fiercely the idea of defeat came to him for an instant. For himself he
cared not, but what would it mean for her! The fight must end. It should
end soon in the only possible way, honesty triumphant over villainy.
Lord Rosmore's thoughts wandered, too. The end did not really trouble
him; he had never known defeat--why should it come to him now? Other men
had parried a difficult thrust twice, and had failed to do so the third
time; yet he remembered Barbara Lanison's speculation when he had spoken
of breaking his sword after killing the highwayman. What would the
highwayman do, she had wondered, if he should prove the victor, and
Rosmore found himself wondering what Crosby would do in the event of
such an end.
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