The Jessamy Bride

by Frank Frankfort Moore

Up to the ceiling flashed another button, and fell back upon the coat from which it was torn.

And still Nicolo fenced away with that look of apprehension still on his face.

“That is his fun,” said Baretti. “Oh, body of Bacchus! A great humourist!”

The next button that Nicolo cutoff with the point of his sword he caught in his left hand and threw to Goldsmith, who also caught it.

The look of triumph vanished from Jackson's face. He drew back, but his antagonist would not allow him to lower his sword, but followed him round the room untiringly. He had ceased his pretence of breathing heavily, but apparently his right arm was tired, for he had thrown his sword into his left hand, and was now fencing from that side.

Suddenly the air became filled with floating scraps of silk and satin. They quivered to right and left, like butterflies settling down upon a meadow; they fluttered about by the hundred, making a pretty spectacle. Jackson's coat and waistcoat were in tatters, yet with such consummate dexterity did the fencingmaster cut the pieces out of both garments that Goldsmith utterly failed to see the swordplay that produced so amazing a result. Nicolo seemed to be fencing pretty much as usual.

And then a curious incident occurred, for the front part of one of the man's pocket fell on the floor.

With an oath Jackson dropped his sword and fell in a heap on the floor. The pocked being cut away, a packet of letters, held against the lining by a few threads of silk, became visible, and in another moment Nicolo had spitted them on his sword, and laid them on the table in a single flash. Goldsmith knew by the look that Jackson cast at them that they were the batch of letters which he had received in the course of his traffic with the American rebels.

“Come, Sandrino,” said Baretti, affecting to yawn. “Finish the rascal off, and let us go to that excellent bottle of Madeira which awaits us. Come, sir, the carrion is not worth more than you have given him; he has kept us from our wine too long already.”

With a curiously tricky turn of the wrist, the master cut off the right sleeve of the man's coat close to his shoulder, and drew it in a flash over his sword. The disclosing of the man's naked arm and the hiding of the greater part of his weapon were comical in the extreme; and with an oath Jackson dropped his sword and fell in a heap upon the floor, thoroughly exhausted.