His sword scraped on Rule’s; his heart felt as though it would burst; his throat was parched; the ache in his arm had become a dull agony; a mist was gathering before his eyes. The years rolled back suddenly; he gasped out: “Marcus—for God’s sake—end it!”
He saw the thrust coming, a straight lunge in high carte aimed for the heart; he made one last parry too late to stop the thrust, but in time to deflect it slightly. Rule’s point, sliding over his blade, entered deep into his shoulder. His own dropped; he stood swaying for an instant, and fell, the blood staining his shirt bright scarlet.
Rule wiped the sweat from his face; his hand was shaking a little. He looked down at Lethbridge, lying in a crumpled heap at his feet, sobbing for breath, the blood on his shirt soaking through, and forming a pool on the oak boards. Suddenly he flung his sword aside and strode to the table, and swept the bottle and the glass off it. He caught up the cloth and tore it with his strong teeth, and ripped it from end to end. The next moment he was on his knees beside Lethbridge, feeling for the wound. The hazel eyes opened, considering him. “I believe—I shan’t die—this time—either!” Lethbridge whispered mockingly.
The Earl had laid bare the wound, and was staunching the blood. “No, I don’t think you will,” he said. “But it’s deep.” He tore another strip from the cloth and made it into a pad, and bound it tightly round the shoulder. He got up and fetched Lethbridge’s coat from a chair, and rolling it up placed it under his head. “I’ll get a doctor,” he said briefly, and went out, and from the head of the stairs shouted for the landlord.
Stout Cattermole appeared so promptly that it seemed as though he must have been waiting for that call. He stood with his hand on the banister, looking anxiously up at the Earl, his brow puckered, his lips close-folded.
“Send one of your lads for a doctor,” said Rule, “and bring up a bottle of cognac.”
The landlord nodded and turned away. “And Cattermole!” said his lordship. “Bring it yourself.”
At that the landlord smiled rather sourly. “Be sure, my lord.”
Rule went back into the oak parlour. Lethbridge was lying where he had left him, with his eyes closed. He looked very white; one of his hands lay limply on the floor beside him the fingers curling upwards. Rule stood looking down at him, frowning. Lethbridge did not move.
Cattermole came in with a bottle and glasses. He put these down on the table, casting a worried appraising glance at the still figure on the floor. He muttered: “Not dead, my lord?”