It was evident that both men recognized each other as old enemies, for they met with a ferocity that told of undying hate. The long rapier and the broadsword clashed together and played in circles of angry light, and the horses wheeled and bounded, obedient to hand and heel, as if they shared every wish of their masters.
The combatants were by no means unequally matched. The dark stranger with the pallid face was much the taller, but his long, lean frame lacked the compactness and solid force of the Herculean partisan. The inferiority in strength was fully made up by an activity and fierce energy that bordered on the supernatural, and the stranger fought with all the vigor of the demon he had so successfully personated.
The partisan, without the lightning velocity and energy of the other, had yet a towering strength, joined to consummate skill with his weapon, that made him a terrible antagonist. His horse was much heavier than that of his foe, and seemed to be equally well trained. Whenever they clashed together, the heavy steed of Butler sent the slight black charger reeling from the shock, and the fierce blows of the partisan beat down the guard of the unknown at every encounter.
The pale cavalier, however, found his revenge in the more insidious and deadly thrusts, which he found occasion to deliver at intervals, with his longer and lighter weapon; and twice did he draw blood with his point, while he received in return a single slash only, which fell short of its full intention, and plowed a long gash in his thigh, with the point of the broadsword.
All these cuts and points passed in the space of half a minute, during which the two men fought with a fury that must have completely exhausted them in a short time.
Then the combat was interrupted as suddenly as it had begun, by the thunder of hoofs close by, as the German dragoons swept down on the contending parties, with loud hurrahs, in a cloud of dust!
He who had been called De Cavannes broke away from his enemy as the dragoons rushed in, and was soon surrounded with foes, whom he bandied with a coolness and vigor that showed the great difference between them and their leader. Then came a counter rush of hoofs, with the cracking of rifles and the whistle of bullets, and down galloped a troop of Morgan’s redoubted Mounted Rifles, yelling their war-cry. In the midst of the new-comers rode the dashing hussar, Adrian Schuyler, his pelisse flying behind him, his saber waving, while the dapple-gray charger swept on like a storm-gust.
In the first assault his sword clashed against that of a German dragoon, and then darted through a man’s body up to the hilt like a flash. The hussar’s horse, rushing on, actually bore the poor wretch out of his saddle by the leverage of the sword, and Adrian was not able to extricate it in time to guard a blow from one of the German’s comrades. The long, straight broadsword, whistling as it came, descended on the summit of the tall fur cap, and clove it down on the hussar’s skull with crushing force, stunning him so that he fell over on his saddle-bow, confused and almost senseless. How he might have fared is doubtful, had not De Cavannes, at the same moment, caught the dragoon across the face with a backhanded slash of his long keen sword, that divided his nose, and sent him reeling back in his saddle, giving Adrian time to recover himself.
Then the conflict waxed furious.
Morgan’s men were superior in numbers to the dragoons, but their arms were by no means equal to those of the others in a close fight on horseback. Few had any thing but rifles and pistols, and those few who carried short hangers knew but little of their use, compared to the well-instructed German swordsmen.