Carstares knew that he would not be able to last long, however. His shoulder, fretted by the long ride, was aching intolerably, and his wrist seemed to have lost some of its cunning. He was conscious of a singing in his head which he tried, in vain, to ignore. But his eyes glowed and sparkled with the light of battle and the primitive lust to kill.
The Duke was fencing with almost superhuman skill, moving heavily and deliberately, seemingly tireless.
Carstares, on the other hand, was as swift and light as a panther, grace in every turn of his slim body.
He feinted suddenly inside the arm, deceiving the parade of tierce. His Grace fell back a pace, parrying in quarte, and as John with a quick twist changed to quarte also and the blades crossed, Tracy lunged forward the length of his arm, and a deep red splash stained the whiteness of my lord's sleeve at the shoulder.
Diana gave a choked cry, knowing it to be the old wound, and the Duke's blade came to rest upon the ground.
"You are—satisfied?" he asked coolly, but panting a little.
My lord reeled slightly, controlled himself and brushed his left hand across his eyes.
"On guard!" was all he replied, ignoring a pleading murmur from the girl.
Tracy shrugged, meeting Carstares' blade with his, and the fight went on.
Tracy's eyes were almost shut, it appeared to Diana, his chin thrust forward, his teeth gripping the thin lower lip.