‘It took me the best part of five minutes to open the door and squeeze through, and when I had crawled to the ledge and looked over, the two combatants were just about to begin.
‘“Put the letters on the mantelpiece,” I could hear her say with a curiously strung tone to her voice, and Sir Henry bowed in a mocking sort of way. Then he says slowly, after having walked to the chimney-piece and placed a packet on the shelf: “But it is not quite fair, of course, for you cannot see your stakes, whereas I—I have mine before my eyes at the end of my blade—the most beautiful stakes in Europe,” and he bowed again to Madame with an air of gallantry and passion and arrogance all in one.
‘For reply the mistress only gave a quick nod with her head, nervous, impatient, like a racehorse that must be away.
‘I daren’t do more than peep over now and again, for the lights were bright below, and I was afraid of being caught; but I could see that she was in a state of great excitement, while he was cool in comparison with her, and wore a proud, triumphing sort of air, as of one who knows full well he has the victory in his grasp.
‘They walk to the centre of the hall and take their stands. They “take length,” and then salute—she, swiftly, nervously, he in a foreign, bravado sort of fashion.
‘“First blood,” says Sir Henry, “and the stakes are won,” saluting once again in a vainglorious way he had.
‘“Yes, but not for a scratch,” replies my lady swiftly. Then they cross rapiers, and the play begins.
‘My sangs! but it wasn’t a play at all, it was a reg’ler battle, a fair duello, and it was all Sir Henry could do to hold his own. They had engaged in “quatre,” and no sooner had blades touched than she disengages and feints in “tierce”; then, with an amazing swiftness, she disengages again, and lunges full at him in “sixte”; carelessly he parries with “sixte,” and in a flash she disengages again, “beats” his blade downwards, and, for all but a biscuit, has him disarmed. He loses hold of his weapon, his fingers slipping from the quillons, but catches it in mid-air before it drops, leaps back a yard, parrying another lunge clever with his left hand as he does so.
‘“’Tis a dirty Italian trick ye have learnt! they haven’t improved ye abroad!” my lady sneers at him.
‘Now, had she been but one flash of an eye quicker with her lunge after the “beat,” she’d have had him in “quatre” nicely, but she hadn’t thought she could disarm him so easy, and she just missed her chance. Sir Henry, though, had had his lesson; he drops his careless, tempting manner, such as a professor tries a beginner with, and fights cooler and more careful, chucking his bravado airs, for it’s dead in earnest she is, and no mere stage-play for the gallery.