Now Tomaso, it was clear, could not hold his own in a battle wherein mere brute force was to have the best of it, and feeling himself at a disadvantage in this respect, he dodged about his adversary as nimbly as Harlequin himself.
Being very quick-sighted, he saw what sort of a blow was coming ere it was fairly dealt, and so he shaped his defence.
If it was a desperate stroke, he jumped out of its reach.
If a light one, he turned it off upon the edge of his own weapon.
In this way he worked upon Toro to such an extent that the Italian's temper got the mastery of him.
Tomaso was attacking him so closely that the Italian looked like losing the battle.
Toro was bleeding from a dozen small flesh wounds.
Tomaso was, up to this moment, almost unscathed.
Presently he grew over bold, and incautiously trusting himself within reach, Toro lunged so sharply out that it was only by the merest shave he escaped being spitted on the Italian's long sword like a lark on a skewer.
As it was the sword pierced the waistband of his nether garments.