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hen gave him a toss high into the air. He shot across the temple, a streak of melody, silver, dulcet, to the far corner of the giant building.
But the thing did not jar the Senestro.
"Well done, Sir Phantom! Anyhow, 'tis your last play! I would not have it otherwise. I hope you can die as prettily! Are you ready?"
"Ready? What for?" retorted Watson. "Why, should I trouble myself with preparations?"
But the Rhamda Geos had now come to his side.
"Do your best, my lord. I regret only that it must be to the death. It is the first death contest in the Thomahlia for a thousand circles (years). But the Senestro has challenged the prophecy. Prove that you are not a false one! My heart is with you."
It was a good word at a needed moment. Watson stepped over onto the circular Spot of Life.
They were both barefooted. Evidently the Thomahlians fought in the old, classic manner. The stone under Watson's feet was cool and invigorating. He could sense anew that quiver of magenetism and strength. It sent a thrill through his whole body, like the subtle quickening of life. He felt vital, joyous, confident.
The Senestro was smiling, his eyes flashing with anticipation. His muscled body was a network of soft movement. His step was catlike.
"What will it be?" inquired Watson. "Name your choice of destruction."
But the Bar shook his head.
"Not so, Sir Phantom. You shall choose the manner of your death, not I. Particular I am not, nor selfish."
"Make it wrestling, then," in his most off-hand manner. He was a good wrestler, and scientific.
"Good. Are you ready?"
"Quite."
"Very well, Sir Phantom. I shall walk to the edge of the Spot and turn around. I would take no unfair advantage. Now!"
Chick turned at the same moment and strode to his edge. He turned, and it happened; just what, Chick never knew. He remembered seeing his opponent turn slowly about, and in the next split second he was spinning in the clutch of a tiger. Even