The two men wheeled. They had changed places; Jack’s back was toward the farmhouse. Again he raised his pistol. His finger curled about the trigger.
Brito paused and his face whitened. Then he cried out, jeering. “Shoot, you cur!” he shrieked. “Shoot, you d—d American! Shoot an unarmed man if you dare. No Englishman would take such an advantage. This isn’t war; it’s a private quarrel. If you’re not all cur, if there’s any Telfair blood in your veins, throw down that pistol and fight on equal terms like a man.”
Jack hesitated. Brito had had his shot and had missed. He was talking merely to save his life; his taunts merited no consideration. Jack knew well that he ought to shoot him down or take him prisoner. He knew that the men at the farmhouse were against him. Nevertheless, Brito’s words bit.
He turned in his saddle. Alagwa was leaping to his side and to her he handed the pistol. “Keep those others back,” he ordered swiftly. Then he turned to face his foe.
It was high time. Brito was coming straight for him. Barely he had time to spur his horse aside and avoid the shock. As he leaped he heard Brito shouting to the Canadians to shoot.
Jack wheeled. The two Canadians had gone back into the farmhouse. Now they were rushing out, muskets in hand. Then Alagwa’s pistol settled on the foremost and he heard their guns crash to the ground.
Jack saw red. For the first time in his life the rage to kill seized him—a fierce, strong longing that shook him from head to foot, a survival from the fierce, bitter primeval days when foes were personal and hate was undiluted. He snatched at his blade and drew it from the scabbard.
“You d—d cur!” he rasped. “You coward! By God! You’ll pay now.” Wild as he was, he was also cold as ice; in some men the two go together.
Like most gentlemen of the day Jack had learned to use the foils and even to some extent the saber. But all his training had been with buttons, where to be touched meant merely the loss of a point on the score. Never had he fought a duel or used a sword in anger, while Brito had done both. To an outsider all the odds would have seemed to be with the older man.
But Jack did not think of odds. Like many men in the moment of extreme peril, he felt supreme assurance that victory was to be his. Before him stretched the vision of long years of life and happiness with Alagwa at his side. The coming fight was a mere incident, not a catastrophe that was to whelm him and her in ruin. Eagerly he spurred forward.