Little Mim met and parried the stroke that was aimed at him.
And then followed several rapid passes. But the combat was very unequal. Mim and Mutchison, as to their respective sizes, were like David and Goliath. And poor tiny Mim had no miraculous sling! When they had crossed swords several times, Mutchison sang out:
“Yield, you little fool!”
“Never!” shouted Mim, parrying the strokes as well as he could, and watching for a chance to run his gigantic antagonist through the body.
“Surrender, you blamed idiot! I don’t want to kill such a midge as you!” cried the guerrilla, without ceasing to lay on.
“Then you needn’t; but take care of yourself, for I want to kill you!—Ah, ha!” exclaimed Mim, as he found his opportunity and ran his rapier an inch or two into the guerrilla’s flesh.
“Here goes then, blame you! I was only playing at first; I am fighting now!” exclaimed the angry guerrilla.
There were a few more rapid passes, and then Mutchison sent the rapier flying from Mim’s hand, and with a sweeping back stroke struck him under the knees, and brought him suddenly to the ground.
For the first time Elfie screamed, and covered her eyes.
“Now beg for quarter, you cursed little idiot!” roared the guerrilla, with his foot upon the small hero’s chest.