The Viscount’s reply was clearly wafted to Mr Drelincourt’s ears. “Never touch spirit before a fight, my dear fellow. Puts your eye out.” He stood up in his stockinged feet and began to roll up his sleeves. Mr Drelincourt, handing his wig to Mr Puckleton’s tender care, wondered why he had never before realized what sinewy arms the Viscount had. He found that Lord Cheston was presenting two identical swords to him. He gulped, and took one of them in a damp grasp.
The Viscount received the other, made a pass as though to test its flexibility, and stood waiting, the point lightly resting on the ground.
Mr Drelincourt was led to his place, the seconds stepped back. He was alone, facing the Viscount, who had undergone some sort of transformation. The careless good humour had left his handsome face, his roving eye looked remarkably keen and steady, his mouth appallingly grim.
“Ready, gentlemen?” Captain Forde called. “On guard!”
Mr Drelincourt saw the Viscount’s sword flash to the salute, and setting his teeth went through the same motions.
The Viscount opened with a dangerous thrust in prime, which Mr Drelincourt parried, but failed to take advantage of. Now that the assault was begun his jumping nerves became steadier; he remembered Captain Forde’s advice, and tried to keep a good guard. As for luring his opponent on, he was kept too busy keeping a proper measure to think of it. An opportunity offering he delivered a thrust in tierce which ought to have ended the affair. But the Viscount parried it by yielding the foible, and countered so quickly that Mr Drelincourt’s heart leapt into his mouth as in the very nick of time he recovered his guard.
The sweat was rolling off his brow and his breath came in exhausted gasps. All at once he thought he saw an opening and lunged wildly. Something icily cold pierced his shoulder, and as he reeled the seconds’ swords struck his wavering blade upwards. It flew out of his hand, and he sank back into the arms of.Mr Puckleton, who cried out: “My God, is he killed? Crosby! Oh, there is blood! I positively cannot bear it!”
“Killed? Lord, no!” said Cheston scornfully. “Here, Parvey, neatly pinked through the shoulder, I take it you are satisfied, Forde?”
“I suppose so,” grunted the Captain. “Damme, if I ever saw a tamer fight!” He looked disgustedly down at the prostrate form of his principal, and inquired of Dr Parvey whether it was a dangerous wound.
The doctor glanced up from his work and beamingly replied: “Dangerous, sir? Why, not in the least! A little blood lost, no harm done. A beautifully clean wound!”