The blow was so sharp and so sudden that Henry reeled. In an instant, however, he had recovered himself and his hand flew to his sword. Mortimer drew with equal celerity.
They sprang together and their swords crossed.
Henry was an expert swordsman and was regarded among the men of the camp as an invincible champion with this weapon. He attacked with all the confidence of one who holds victory certain. He little dreamed, however, of the skill against which he was now matched—a skill which in bygone days had held wild Kurd horsemen and fiery Cossacks alike successfully at bay and had given its owner the reputation of the crack swordsman of the American ranks. Mortimer fenced smartly, as one on parade, and the smile still hovered about his lips as he parried his opponent’s fierce attacks.
It was soon over. There was a quick parry, a sharp feint and Mortimer’s arm shot out in a lightning-like lunge. Back reeled Henry and dropped heavily to earth. Mortimer’s sword had passed beneath his opponent’s black beard and had penetrated deep into the throat. He lay gasping—dying; choked with the blood which ebbed from the great wound and gushed in a gory tide over his neck and breast.
Mortimer shook the blood from his sword.
“That’s what the swordsmen of the French school call ‘le coup de cochon,’” he said. “It’s a very neat stroke—when properly delivered.” And he turned coolly toward Dean.
But the latter stood leaning for support against the side of one of the air-ships, looking with strained eyes and blanched face at the form upon the ground.
“Ah, I forgot,” exclaimed Mortimer, “you’re not accustomed to scenes of this kind. It’s astonishing, though, how soon one does get used to them in war.”
“Can we lend him no aid,” asked Dean and, overcoming his feelings, he advanced and knelt beside the wounded man.
“He’s beyond human assistance, I assure you,” said Mortimer. “I have never known a recovery from that stroke.”