“Mayn’t have begun yet,” panted Andrew. “Sure to take time preparing first.—There, hark!”
For from beneath a clump of trees, a couple of hundred yards in front, there was an indistinct sound which might have meant anything. This the boys attributed to the grinding together of swords, and hurried on.
Before they had gone twenty yards, though, it stopped; and as all remained silent after they had gone on a short distance farther, the pair stopped, too, and listened.
“Going wrong,” said Frank despairingly.
“No. Right,” whispered Andrew, grasping his companion’s arm; for a low voice in amongst the trees gave what sounded like an order, and directly after there was a sharp click as of steel striking against steel, followed by a grating, grinding sound, as of blade passing over blade.
Frank made a rush forward over the wet grass, disengaging his arm as he did so; but Andrew bounded after him, and flung his arms about his shoulders.
“Stop!” he whispered. “You’re not going on if you are going to interfere.”
“Let go!” said Frank, in a choking voice. “I’m not going to interfere. I am going to try and act like a man.”
“Honour?”
“Honour!” and once more they ran on, to reach the trees and thread their way through to where a couple of groups of gentlemen stood in a grassy opening, looking on while two others, stripped to shirt and breeches, were at thrust and parry, as if the world must be rid of one of them before they had done.