“He’s in his carriage, playing cards with the doctor,” said the viscount, throwing an irked look at Kadenworthy.
The seconds conferred briefly. Since this was a matter in which blows had been struck and apologies were neither offered nor expected, there had been small effort to achieve a reconciliation between the principals. The swords, both hollow and well balanced, were compared for length, and approved. The seconds had agreed to obtain the services of only one surgeon, and that gentleman now left the carriage, bag in one hand and an apple in the other. Minutes later, Rossiter and Falcon, having removed their coats and rolled back their ruffles, stood face-to-face with swords raised in the salute.
Falcon opened the offensive. He had an odd way of fighting, crouching slightly, his left arm held palm up but out to the side rather than extended behind him in the customary fashion. His thrust incartefollowed the barest of exchanges after the initial salute, as though he had quickly taken the measure of his opponent. Rossiter, no mean swordsman, instantly parried with the heel of his blade, returned the thrust within the sword and returned to his guard. He was astonished to hear Falcon’s half-whispered “Good,” and saw the thin lips curve into a smile. No opening was allowed, however, and a second later Falcon’s sword darted for his chest in a powerfultiercethrust. Again, Rossiter parried successfully, and returned intierce.Falcon shifted intosexteand increased the pace of his attack, and the swords rang together like rapidly erratic bell chimes, the duellists moving gracefully despite the fact that the condition of the ground had forbidden they remove their shoes.
From the outset Rossiter had known not only that he faced a magnificent swordsman but that as he’d suspected his bruises and the old wound in his leg were going to hinder him. He had not the slightest doubt but that although Falcon meant to enjoy himself, this would not be a killing matter. On the other hand, they had agreed on “first blood,” and to be disabled at this particular time did not at all suit his plans. His lips tightened determinedly, his eyes narrowed to an intent stare, and he bent every ounce of his concentration on the struggle.
Falcon, very fast, and obviously in his element, not only set a fierce pace, but covered a lot of ground, so that the seconds, each with sword drawn and ready, were obliged to be constantly on the move. Following a flurry of attacks, lightning swift, Falcon thrust inseconde.Rossiter parried with a prime parade and returned the thrust in prime, recovering in the nick of time as Falcon essayed a brilliant counter disengage.
“Hey!” yelled Cranford, a note in his voice that caused Glendenning to at once run in to strike up the blades of the duellists.
They all turned to discover the cause of the objection. Besides being very red-faced, Cranford was standing at a decidedly odd angle, gripping his right knee.
Glendenning said, “Oh, I say! Are you stuck, Perry?” and hurried to him.
Cranford was indeed stuck, his peg-leg having sunk deep into the mud.
There was a good deal of hilarity and horseplay involved in the rescue effort, and Morris and Glendenning cheered lustily as Cranford was freed. Falcon’s brow was black, however, noting which Morris said innocently, “Cheer up, Falcon. The duel is quiteinchoate,you know.”
This deliberate provocation caused Rossiter to chuckle, but did little to improve Falcon’s fast-deteriorating mood. Ignoring Morris, he demanded, “Why the deuce didn’t you wear your false foot, Cranford?”
“Blasted thing’s always falling off,” said Cranford apologetically. “Sorry, August. I hadn’t counted on that confounded storm last night, else I’d have brought it up to Town with me.”
Kadenworthy asked, “All right, Perry?”
Cranford said he was perfectly all right, but he eyed the muddy ground apprehensively.
Morris suggested to Falcon that he postpone. “You look ripe for a seizure, old boy, and likely should lie down and rest awhile.”
“Of course I shall not postpone,” snarled Falcon, and meeting Kadenworthy’s ironic glance, added in an undervoice, “fellow’s got the nous of a newt!”
Intrigued, Morris asked, “Who has?” and peered at Kadenworthy. “Jove, but you’re right. His nosedoeslook rather like—”
“I saidnous,you silly block!” roared Falcon. “And I referred toyou!”
“Did you, by Jove!” Morris turned to Kadenworthy, whose brown eyes suddenly were glinting with amusement. “My apologies, my lord. I thought he meant—”
“Damn you, you thought nothing of the kind,” said Kadenworthy. “And if you must know, Morris, my nose is often admired as being truly Roman.”
Falcon snapped, “You have my unqualified permission to stand here and admire it, Morris, so that the rest of us can get on with this.”
There was a concerted laugh, and with an amused eye on Falcon’s choleric countenance, Rossiter requested that they move to less cut-up ground. This was soon accomplished, and theaffaire d’honneurresumed.
The interruption had provided Rossiter with a much-needed respite, but Falcon was angry now, and fought with an intensity that kept Rossiter constantly on the defensive. Time and again his sword turned Falcon’s thrusts at the last instant, but turn them it did, so that a grudging admiration dawned in Falcon’s night blue eyes, and Morris began to hope his friend might yet win this fight. Hard-driven, Rossiter risked a feint, appearing to give Falcon a wide opening. Falcon thrust savagely and for an instant Rossiter thought he’d allowed his point to stray too far to the right. His sword flashed into a lunge, but to his surprise the blade went over his opponent’s head. Falcon’s foot had slipped. He uttered a shocked cry, and impelled by the force of his attack, he shot past Rossiter, sprawled face down, and slid for several yards.
Morris’ shriek of laughter brought howls from the others. Breathing hard, and grinning widely, Rossiter tucked his sword under his arm, and went to extend a helping hand.
Falcon sat up and glared at him in muddy and impotent fury. His chin, his immaculate shirt and breeches, were a disaster, and his sword was plunged hilt deep in the grasses.
Morris ran up, and grasping the weapon wrenched it forth and waved it on high, shouting irrepressibly, “Excalibur! Long live… the king!”
The air rang with their laughter, the surgeon’s hilarity reducing him to tears.
It was a mirth Falcon did not share. “You… damned sillydolt!” he spluttered, springing to his feet and tearing the sword from Morris’ hand. “Think it funny, do you? By God, I’ll show you—”
Rossiter stepped in front of the enraged man and said sharply, “Control that ugly temper, Falcon, and try for a little sportsmanship. Morris meant no offence.”
“Yes, I did, Ross,” sighed Morris, wiping his eyes. “I meant to show him hownoushe is!”
