PENROSE
(astounded).
What! Would he challenge us?
MARSH
(scornfully).
A turn of the wrist and the thing is done. Have at him, Penrose.
[Penrose and Richard engage. Richard fights coolly, with his back ever to the door. Penrose grows more and more flustered. Marsh holds an iron candelabrum aloft, for the other candles have gutted and the room is shadowy.
PENROSE
(fear in his voice).
The candles—higher. They're getting low. I cannot see——
[Richard and Penrose engage a second time, and Penrose's foil is flung across the room to left. Marsh is about to crash the candelabrum on Richard's sword, when Richard, with a deft movement, seizes it and hurls it to the floor, where it falls with a dull clatter. Marsh, discomfited, turns to Penrose, who has picked up his fallen sword, and is holding his wrist.
PENROSE
(peevishly).
The lout has turned my wrist, and torn my ruffles.