The doctor shrugged his shoulders; there was a short and hurried conference between the two seconds, and then they placed their men.
The prince stepped up to his position slowly, and took his stand with that calm, resolute expression on his face which indicated a settled purpose. The gray of coming morning fell upon the open space, the white shirts of the duelists shining out conspicuously in the half light. The general stood at a little distance between them, his handkerchief in his hand, and both men fixed their eyes upon it. Then it dropped and they approached each other slowly and steadily, and looked into each other's eyes.
And in the prince's fixed gaze Blair read his intended death-warrant. He returned the look calmly, almost cheerfully, and the next instant the shining blades crossed with a sharp, hissing sound.
For a few moments each kept his guard, each man trying his adversary's strength.
It had occurred to Blair that he might succeed in wresting the sword from the prince's hand, and in doing it sprain his wrist, and so render him incapable of resuming the duel; but he was speedily convinced of the futility of such an attempt. Though so much slighter than Blair, the prince's wrist was like steel, and let Blair bear ever so heavily, his giant's force was met by its equivalent in steel. Of a certainty there was no chance of disarming the prince.
"His lordship is a better swordsman than I expected," murmured the general. "I always thought that Englishmen did not know how to fence!"
"This man is one of a thousand," said the doctor. "If the prince should only lose his temper he may stand a chance."
The general shook his head.
"He never loses either his temper or his head when he means business, and he means it this morning; look at his face," he added, significantly.
The doctor nodded.