‘On she comes again like a tigress, evidently trying to “rush” him, and back and back she presses him till the pair o’ them’s right under the gallery where I was lying. I had my head right through the bars by that time, I was so keen to see the fight, and it was only by stuffing my handkerchief into my mouth that I could stop myself from shouting advice and encouragement to her, she fought so desperate keen and with such a wild-cat pluck.
‘It wasn’t exactly scientific, her fencing, it was too rash and all-for-victory straight away, but it was grand to see her flashing her rapier in and out, flickering like a serpent’s tongue, and all the while her graceful limbs moved softly, swiftly, like a panther’s, beneath her silken evening dress.
‘Once Sir Henry’s foot slipped, and in she comes like a knife, and he only escapes by adopting another Italian trick—that of dropping with the left hand to the floor. She still presses him harder than ever, and I could hear her breathing hotly, “heck, heck,” like an angered hawk. Then swift he “binds” with her, but he does it over-viciously and pays for it, for she’s agile as a cat, and freeing herself with a leap backward, suddenly with a lightning-like “cut-over” touches him on the sword arm, and though he wouldn’t acknowledge it, I knew she’d pricked him, and I could tell that it had roused him to anger in his turn. “You she-devil!” I heard him hiss between his teeth, and now he turned to the offensive himself.
‘He was at a disadvantage, though, for he didn’t want to hurt her badly, being a woman, so he tries to disarm her, and give her some slight wound on the sword arm, or high in “quatre” or “tierce.”
‘That was no good, as I could have told him nicely, for she had the strongest and supplest wrist of any woman ever I saw, and forbye that, disarming can only be done by taking your opponent unawares, and she kenned nicely what he was after.
‘Then sudden he gies it up, seeing the uselessness o’t, and tries a brute strength game, waits his chance till he can lift up her blade, and then thrusts sideways so as to pink her high in the shoulder, but she twists aside and it only just touches her through the sleeve. “First blood!” he shouts triumphantly, “the stakes are mine,” with a low bow and a sweep o’ the sword arm. “Phit!” she cries passionately; “it’s only a scratch,” and she comes again at him with a bound.
‘Then he loses his temper a bit, I think, for his own sword arm was bleeding, as I knew well, for I saw a drop or two of blood on the floor and his hand was crimson forbye. So he comes to meet her, quickly driving her back in turn, plying his rapier this way and that fiercely, just missing her by a hair’s breadth to frighten her, till he could have her at his mercy, and then he tries a “cut-over” in “tierce,” swift as a meteor, pressing his “fort” strongly against her “foible,” and would have been home sure as fate had not his foot slipped on a drop of blood on the floor. Up flies his rapier idly—she with a sudden flip tosses it higher still, and with a leap, by Gox! she ran him through in “seconde”—just above his right hip.
‘“Hurroo!” shouts I, through my handkerchief and all. “Clever, clever!” for it was splendidly done—scientific, exact, just perfection.
‘There Sir Henry lay in a swoon upon the floor, for no doubt the pain and the shock together would be immense, while my mistress, she just takes one look at him, then wipes her rapier swift upon her handkerchief, takes up Sir Henry’s also, and places them against the rack in the armoury, takes down two foils, throws one on the floor, breaks the other in two and flings the pieces down beside its fellow. Then swift as ever she goes to the mantelpiece, takes up the bundle of letters and chucks them into the fire.
‘She watches them burn for a moment, then presses the electric bell close by, and just as John the footman walks in at the door Sir Henry comes to himself, and lifts himself up on to his elbow off the floor.