Probably no stranger encounter ever occurred at Yale than this night battle between two students armed with deadly rapiers. The expressions on their faces told that the struggle was of the most serious nature.
This was no mere fencing-bout for sport. On one side, at least, it was a duel with the most deadly import.
But Defarge had been astounded by the escape of Hodge from that thrust. The crack of the chair against his knees had confused him. And then he was dazed when Bart leaped up like a supple panther, gripping the rapier, and attacked him with the gleaming blade.
The fierceness of Bart’s assault was something impossible to withstand long.
Sparks flew from the meeting weapons, which gleamed and flashed and hissed through the air.
The look on the face of Bart Hodge was one of such furious determination that the French youth involuntarily gave way before him.
“You would have it, you devil’s whelp!” came through Bart’s teeth. “Stand up and fight! You forced it on me, now make good—or take the consequences!”
With a twisting stroke, Bart had torn the weapon from the hand of his adversary and sent it spinning in a far corner, where it fell rattling to the floor.
The next instant, with his left hand, Frank Merriwell’s friend and champion seized the unarmed youth by the throat and hurled him backward upon the table that stood in the middle of the room.
As Defarge lay there helpless and terrified, Bart stood over him, his gleaming rapier raised as if to make the final and fatal thrust of this most remarkable encounter.