Her voice was not loud, but it pierced and begged. She had dodged round to the door of the execution shed. If anyone had looked at her then (nobody did) that person would have seen Ruth was far more terrified of these sharpened points than of any forces in Pentecost Prison.
"Look here, Ruth, we're only playing!" said Martin. "Ricky!"
"Yes, old boy?"
"Put that lamp of yours at the other end, against the iron door. Propped up behind me just as the other one is behind him."
Tick-ting went the blades, circling and feeling round each other.
The two facing lights sprang up, silhouetting both fencers
and somewhat clouding each other's right Tick-ting, tick-ting.
Of course, Martin knew, this was only playing. Feint-lunges, as harmless as the hop of insects; much threatening and scrape of feet; cats darting with sheathed claws. Yet he could feel his own heated excitement and feel through the thin blades the tensity of Dr. Lauder's arm.
"Only playing!", cried the latter, in a kind of ecstasy. Tick-ting. His eyes never moved from Martin's through the crossing-line of the points. "Only playing!" He made a feint of darting in.
"For God's sake stop," shrilled Ruth. "I can't bear swords! I can't stand it! I—" Then, in horror, she pressed one hand over her mouth.