One of the combatants
was disposed of, but whether friend or foe Wolfert could not tell,
nor whether they might not both be foes. He heard the survivor
approach, and his terror revived. He saw, where the profile of the
rocks rose against the horizon, a human form advancing. He could
not be mistaken; it must be the buccaneer. Whither should he fly?-
-a precipice was on one side, a murderer on the other. The enemy
approached--he was close at hand. Wolfert attempted to let himself
down the face of the cliff. His cloak caught in a thorn that grew
on the edge. He was jerked from off his feet, and held dangling in
the air, half choked by the string with which his careful wife had
fastened the garment around his neck. Wolfert thought his last
moment was arrived; already had he committed his soul to St.
Nicholas, when the string broke, and he tumbled down the bank,
bumping from rock to rock and bush to bush, and leaving the red
cloak fluttering like a bloody banner in the air.
It was a long while before Wolfert came to himself. When he opened
his eyes, the ruddy streaks of morning were already shooting up the
sky.
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