The Jessamy Bride

by Frank Frankfort Moore

Goldsmith said nothing. The man had grossly insulted him the evening before, and he had made Mary Horneck wretched; but he could not taunt him now that he was at the mercy of a master-swordsman. He watched the man breathing hard, and then nerving himself for another attack upon the Italian.

Jackson's second attempt to get Nicolo within the range of his sword was no more successful than his first. He was no despicable fencer, but his antagonist could afford to play with him. The sound of his hard breathing was a contrast to the only other sound in the room—the grating of steel against steel.

Then the smile upon the sallow face of the fencing-master seemed gradually to vanish. He became more than serious—surely his expression was one of apprehension.

Goldsmith became somewhat excited. He grasped Baretti by the arm, as one of Jackson's thrusts passed within half an inch of his antagonist's shoulder, and for the first time Nicolo took a hasty step back, and in doing so barely succeeded in protecting himself against a fierce lunge of the other man.

It was now Jackson's turn to laugh. He gave a contemptuous chuckle as he pressed forward to follow up his advantage. He did not succeed in touching Nicolo, though he went very close to him more than once, and now it was plain that the Italian was greatly exhausted. He was breathing hard, and the look of apprehension on his face had increased until it had actually become one of terror. Jackson did not fail to perceive this, and malignant triumph was in every feature of his face. Any one could see that he felt confident of tiring out the visibly fatigued Italian, and Goldsmith, with staring eyes, once again clutched Baretti.

Baretti's yellow skin became wrinkled up to the meeting place of his wig and forehead in smiles.

“I should like the third button of his coat for a memento, Sandrino,” said he.

In an instant there was a quivering flash through the air, and the third paste button off Jackson's coat indented the wall just above Baretti's head and fell at his feet, a scrap of the satin of the coat flying behind it like the little pennon on a lance.

“Heavens!” whispered Goldsmith.

“Ah, friend Nicolo was always a great humourist,” said Baretti. “For God's sake, Sandrino, throw them high into the air. The rush of that last was like a bullet.”