The two horses crashed, rearing and biting, and over their heads the swords of the riders clashed. Neither spoke. Neither had mind to speak or even to think. Both fought grimly, terribly, well knowing that for one the end was death. Stroke and parry, parry and stroke; hot and swift the one followed the other.
For the most part they fought at close quarters, but now and again the horses carried them apart. At one such moment Jack glimpsed at the farmhouse door and its group. The women had fled inside and were peering from the windows; the children had disappeared altogether; the two men, disarmed, stood backed against the wall, under Alagwa’s pistol.
The crimson sunset had faded from the sky, but the half-moon was glowing out, changing from its daylight sheen to a silver glory that spilled like rain upon the shadowy world. By its gleam the fight went on, minute after minute.
At last Jack began to tire. His arms drooped and he began to fight on the defensive. He was scarcely twenty-one; for twenty-four hours he had not closed his eyes; for four days he had had little rest and little food; for months he had been torn with anxiety, more wearing than any exertion. Brito had suffered, too, but his stress had been national rather than personal. His muscles were older and more seasoned, his arms more sinewy. His attack showed no signs of slackening.
Suddenly his eyes gleamed. He had noted Jack’s growing weakness. His tongue began to wag. “You fool!” he hissed. “I told you to keep out of my way. This is the end. Tonight—tonight——”
He disengaged and thrust, his blade singing within a hair’s breadth of Jack’s throat. He thrust again and the keen edge hissed through Jack’s sleeve. Again he thrust, but this time Jack met him with a parry that sent his blade wide.
But the Englishman did not pause. His onslaught became terrible. His sword became a living flame, circling, writhing, and hissing in the moonlight. Slowly he forced the American backward. For the moment no living man could have held ground against his fury.
JACK TELFAIR AND CAPTAIN BRITO SETTLE THEIR DISPUTE
Then suddenly, when Jack thought he could sustain no more, the attack slackened. Flesh and blood could not maintain its fury. Brito’s arm flagged for a second, perhaps in order to deceive; then he thrust again, upward, for the throat. Jack, worn out, took a desperate chance. He did not parry with his blade; instead he threw up his hilt and caught Brito’s point squarely upon the guard. A hair’s breadth to the right or to the left and the other’s sword would have pierced his throat. But that hair’s breadth was not granted. Brito’s blade stopped short, bent almost double, and snapped short. Brito himself swayed sideways, losing his balance for the moment. Before he could recover Jack rose in his stirrups and brought his blade down with a sweeping stroke against the bare, brown neck that for an instant lay exposed. Deep the steel cut. Beneath it Brito stiffened; his sword dropped from his hands; blood spouted from the severed veins; he swayed and toppled—dead.