Mathews had already drawn his weapon. In a second he had rushed upon Dick. Nothing could have resisted such an attack. Dick made no attempt to resist it. He sprang to one side and so avoided the point of the sword. He took care that Mathews should not have another such chance. The man had barely time to turn and put up his guard before Dick was upon him. With heads bent eagerly forward (the situation was not one for the punctilios of the duello), the men crossed blades—the rasp of steel against steel—the heavy breathing—the quick lunge and the deft response—a little gasp—a flash—more rasping of steel—backward and forward—flat hands in the air—a fierce lunge—a second—a third—fierce—fiercer—fiercest—a whiz and a whirl. Mathews’ sword flashed through the air. The two postboys with the lantern sprang apart to avoid its fall. The next instant Mathews had sprung upon Dick, catching him by the throat, and trying to force him back. Dick tried to shorten his sword, but failed. Mathews made a clutch for the blade, but missed it, and Dick struck him full in the face with the steel guard; a second blow made a gash on his left temple, and the man went down in a heap. He fell neither backward nor forward. His legs seemed to be paralysed, and he went down as though a swordsman had cut him through as one does a sheep.
Dick took the man’s sword—a grinning postboy had picked it up—and snapped it in two across his knee.
“He is not dead—he cannot be dead!” cried Betsy.
“I am sorry to say that he will not die just now—vermin are not so easily killed,” said Dick.
CHAPTER XXXVII
Dick ordered the postboys to return to the chaise.
“We will return with you to Bath,” said he. “Put the harness of your horse which was shot on mine. We will join you before you have got the horse in the traces. Carry the man to the bank and lay him among the trees.”
“Not back to Bath, Dick—not back to Bath,” said Betsy, when the postboys had gone.
“Good heavens! if not to Bath—whither?” he cried.