The face of the Midwestern man flamed scarlet and then grew pale. His eyes burned with a light of anger that he could repress only with difficulty. Twice he had been outgeneraled, and he knew it.
In a twinkling the cloud returned to the face of François L’Estrange. His lips parted, but he did not speak.
“I knew he would do it!” muttered Bart Hodge, in satisfaction. “Keep your eyes on Merry! He’s getting there now!”
Darleton realized that he was losing his advantage. He sought to recover by feinting in high lines and attacking instantly in low lines. In this effort he placed himself at a disadvantage, for Merry seemed to read his mind and met him effectively.
Again Frank scored, but, in getting away, he appeared to lose his balance.
Darleton followed up.
Down went Merry, falling on his left hand, and Darleton uttered an exclamation of triumph as he attempted to count.
With a twist of his wrist, Frank parried the stroke. His left arm flung him up with a spring.
Dismayed and annoyed by his failure to improve such an opening, Darleton closed in and the fencers came corps-a-corps.
Immediately L’Estrange separated them.