Closer and closer they approached, until, at the very last moment, the Samoan let fly with his harpoon.

The masked rider ducked, the harpoon sailed harmlessly over him, and he came up with his sword and thrust it at Tree-Trunk in a quick, deft movement. The next moment their horses collided and Tree-Trunk went down, his mount rolling on top of him.

The horse got up, but Tree-Trunk didn’t.

The masked rider stayed in his saddle, but had to fight to control his horse, which was prancing and rearing nervously.

Zoltan arrived and galloped past James and Amy.

James caught a glimpse of his face. He was grimacing in pain.

‘No,’ he shouted. ‘Go back.’

Zoltan’s pistol was useless. He had used up all his bullets shooting at the guards near the dam. While the masked rider was distracted he galloped past him, leant over in the saddle and plucked Tree-Trunk’s harpoon out of the ground, then pulled up and turned his horse.

The man in the mask glanced briefly at James then back at Zoltan, deciding on his next move.

Zoltan decided it for him.

He put the harpoon in the crook of his right arm, yelled, spurred his horse forward and charged like a medieval knight with a lance.

The masked man straightened his arm and pointed his sword at Zoltan. Then, with a shout, he was galloping at the Magyar.

James clutched Amy as the two men thundered towards each other, dust flying up behind them, their horses foaming with sweat. As they got nearer it became clear that neither of them was prepared to give way. It was going to be sword against harpoon and James hated to think who might be the winner. Zoltan had the longer reach with the harpoon, but he was sick and weak, and the point wobbled in front of him. The masked man held his sword arm perfectly straight and firm and the light flashed off his cruel, thin blade.

‘I can’t watch,’ said Amy, and she covered her face with her hands.

At last they met.

There was a grating clash and both men were knocked from their saddles. They fell heavily to the ground and their horses slowed to a walk, then wandered off to crop the grass as if nothing had happened.

The masked rider had been impaled on the harpoon and sat, resting forward on the haft, the fingers of one hand clawing at the dirt, the other hand still clutching the sword, whose tip was broken off.

He stiffened and grew still.

James went over to him and removed the mask.

It was Peter Haight, his handsome face as blank as the mask he had been wearing.

He was already dead.

‘James, help!’

Amy was crouched over Zoltan, holding her hand to a wound in his chest. ‘He’s hurt,’ she said.

James peeled back his shirt.