“Is he in a condition to continue?”
“Why not?” Verplank scornfully replied.
He raised his left hand, and, with a gesture of excuse, turned and spat. He looked up. His mouth was on fire, his jaw burned, the wound in his cheek was a flame. Yet these things but added to the intensity of his eyes. They blazed. There was blood on his face, on his chin, on his shirt, on his feet. He was hideous. But he was a man, and a mad one.
“He ought to be horsewhipped,” muttered Silverstairs, glaring as he spoke at Barouffski, who was talking to his seconds.
“On guard, then!” called de Fresnoy.
“Permit me, permit me,” cried Tyszkiewicz. “The point of my principal’s sword is broken.”
“Give him another then,” de Fresnoy roughly threw out. Insolently he added: “And teach him how to use it.” In a moment, when from the other bag, a foil had been got and measured, “On guard,” he repeated.
Again he united the foils. Again he gave the command.
For a moment the weapons clashed.