“It is a little better in this direction,” said Sir George, indicating a shallow hollow place in the sand behind him.
I agreed with him, for there the waters of the tides had washed up on the sand, packing it firmly down.
This place, however, lay a little farther toward the sea, and made it necessary for us, if we would fight there, to stand, at times, with our ankles in the wet. It seemed to be the nearest place that suited, and was, in truth, a choice spot for a bit of sword play.
We threw off our upper garments. Our weapons were out of the scabbards as one, and we advanced until we stood facing each other. Sir George turned his gaze for an instant toward the rising sun on his left. Then he looked me in the eyes.
“Guard,” he said, quickly.
“On guard,” said I.
Our swords crossed a second later, and the battle between us was on.
For the first time I noticed how pale Sir George was. There were dark rings under his eyes, and his face bore marks of his passion and his recent sufferings, physical and mental. But it was no time for such observations as these. His steel clicked viciously on mine, and I knew, by the pressure and the way he lunged, that he was trying to make short work of it.
The clash of our blades, both good ones, mingled with the roar of the surf. It was thrust and parry, parry and thrust, the keen pointed weapons gliding along their lengths like serpents. We circled about one another, each watching, with jealous eyes, for a false move, a misstep. Three times did he thrust at my heart, thinking to catch me off guard, but, each time, my blade was there before his, and the sword slipped off with a hiss as of hot iron.
I tried many a stroke and thrust that I had found of service heretofore, but ever did I find his wrist ready, and he turned aside my point once when I could have sworn that I would have ended it. He laughed at me.