"Cursed rascal!" swore Sturm, growing crimson. And, rushing upon Benedict, he made as he came, two successive coups de seconde, so hasty and so furious that Benedict had barely time to parry them, by twice retiring, and then a parade de seconde delivered with such precision and energy that the loose shirt was torn above the waistband, and Benedict felt the cold steel. Another stain of blood appeared.
"What! Are you trying to tear off my shirt?" said Benedict, sending his enemy a high thrust de quarte, which would have run him through, but that, feeling himself in danger, he flung himself forward in such a manner that the hilts touched, and the two adversaries stood with their swords up face to face.
"Here!" cried Benedict, "this will teach you to steal my thrust."
And before the seconds could interpose their swords to separate them, Benedict, freeing his arm like a spring, drove the two hilts like the blow of a fist in his adversary's face, who staggered back, his face lacerated and bruised by the blow.
Then followed a scene which made those who beheld it shudder.
Sturm drew back for an instant, his mouth half-open and foaming, his teeth clenched and bleeding, his lips turned back, his eyes gleaming, bloodshot and almost starting from their sockets, his whole countenance reddish purple.
"Blackguard! Dog!" he yelled, waving his stiff-held sword and crouching back for his guard like a jaguar ready to spring.
Benedict stood calm, cold, contemptuous. He extended his sword towards him.
"You belong to me, now," he said in a solemn voice. "You are about to die."
He fell back to his guard, exaggerating the pose as a sort of challenge. He had not to wait long.