But dashing the blood from his eyes with his free hand, and without giving way, Saint-Prosper met the assault with a wrist of iron, and the land baron failed to profit by what had seemed a certain advantage. The wound had the effect of making the soldier more cautious, and eye, foot and hand were equally true. 273 Mauville was breathing heavily from his exertions, but the appearance of both men, the supple movements of the one contrasting with the perfect precision of the other, would have delighted those members of the count’s society, who regarded these matches as leading to a renaissance of chivalry.
In his fury that his chance had slipped away, after wounding, and, as he supposed, blinding his opponent, Mauville, throwing prudence to the winds, recklessly attempted to repeat his rash expedient, and this time the steel of his antagonist gleamed like quicksilver, passing beneath his arm and inflicting a slight flesh wound. Something resembling a look of apprehension crossed the land baron’s face. “I have underestimated him!” he thought. “The next stroke will be driven nearer home.”
He felt no fear, however; only mute, helpless rage. In the soldier’s hand the dainty weapon was a thing of marvelous cunning; his vastly superior strength made him practically tireless in this play. Not only tireless; he suddenly accelerated the tempo of the exercise, but behind this unexpected, even passionate, awakening, the spectators felt an unvarying accuracy, a steely coldness of purpose. The blades clicked faster; they met and parted more viciously; the hard light in Saint-Prosper’s eyes grew brighter as he slowly thrust back his antagonist.
Mauville became aware his own vigor was slowly failing him; instead of pressing the other he was now obliged to defend himself. He strove to throw off 274 the lethargy irresistibly stealing over him; to shake the leaden movements from his limbs. He vainly endeavored to penetrate the mist falling before his eyes and to overcome the dizziness that made his foeman seem like a figure in a dream. Was it through loss of blood, or weariness, or both?––but he was cognizant his thrusts had lost force, his plunges vitality, and that even an element of chance prevailed in his parries. But he uttered no sound. When would that mist become dark, and the golden day fuse into inky night?
Before the mist totally eclipsed his sight he determined to make one more supreme effort, and again sprang forward, but was driven back with ease. The knowledge that he was continuing a futile struggle smote him to the soul. Gladly would he have welcomed the fatal thrust, if first he could have sent his blade through that breast which so far had been impervious to his efforts. Now the scene went round and round; the golden day became crimson, scarlet; then gray, leaden, somber. Incautiously he bent his arm to counter an imaginary lunge, and his antagonist thrust out his rapier like a thing of life, transfixing Mauville’s sword arm. He stood his ground bravely for a moment, playing feebly into space, expecting the fatal stroke! When would it come? Then the slate-colored hues were swallowed in a black cloud. But while his mind passed into unconsciousness, his breast was openly presented to his antagonist, and even the count shuddered.
With his blade at guard, Saint-Prosper remained 275 motionless; the land baron staggered feebly and then sank softly to the earth. That fatal look, the expression of a duelist, vanished from the soldier’s face, and, allowing the point of his weapon to drop to the ground, he surveyed his prostrate antagonist.
“Done like a gentleman!” cried the count, breathing more freely. “You had him at your mercy, sir”––to Saint-Prosper––“and spared him.”
A cold glance was the soldier’s only response, as without a word he turned brusquely away. Meanwhile the doctor, hastening to Mauville’s side, opened his shirt.
“He is badly hurt?” asked Barnes, anxiously, of the surgeon.
“No; only fainted from loss of blood,” replied that gentleman, cheerfully. “He will be around again in a day or two.”