"Why?" Brenderby made an imaginary pass in the air.
"So much depends on it," explained Philip. "Is the light fair to both?"
"Fair enough," said Brenderby.
"You are ready, then? Eh bien!"
The blades met and hissed together.
Opening in quarte, Brenderby seemed at first to be the better of the two. Philip stayed on the defensive, parrying deftly and allowing Brenderby to expend his energies. Once Brenderby's blade flashed out and all but pinked Philip, but he managed to recover his opposition in time. His eyes opened wider; he became more cautious. Suddenly he descried an opening and lunged forward. There was a moment's scuffle, and Brenderby put the murderous point aside. Then Philip seemed to quicken. When Brenderby began to pant, Philip changed his tactics, and gave back thrust for thrust. His wrist was like flexible steel; his footwork was superb; the whole style of his fencing was different from that of Brenderby.
All at once Brenderby saw an opening. He thrust in quinte, steel scraped against steel, and Philip's point flashed into his right arm above the elbow.
Brenderby staggered back, clutched at his arm, and tried to raise his sword again. But Philip was at his side, supporting him.
"It's only a flesh wound—painful now—bien sûr. It will—heal quickly. I do not—mistake," he gasped.
"Damme—I'm not done for—yet!"