The count turned upon him with a polite bow, and said:
“Perhaps you will give me the satisfaction.”
“If you like, I'll take it up for him,” said Forbes, with admirable coolness. “He is older than you, and not accustomed to the sword.”
“Look here—I won't let you fight for me,” I said. “These fellows are used to the sword and pistol. They have nothing else to do and are looking for a sure thing. Fight him with your fists—if he's bound to fight again.”
“Him! That would be too sure a thing, I'm afraid,” said Richard. “I've practised this game of fencing at college and the Fencers' Club. I'm not afraid of the count.”
I had observed that a number of swords had been lying on a table near us. Before Richard's remark was finished the count had picked up one of them and said to my friend:
“Come—you are not fearful—like a lady. Give me one chance.”
Before anything more could be done or said the young men were at it, and, to my great relief, I saw that Forbes was able to take care of himself. The count was a clever swordsman, but my friend was stronger and just as quick.
It is about the prettiest survival of feudal times, this bloody game of the sword.
I observed that the clock in the studio indicated the moment of 12.18 when the contest began. It lasted for an hour or more, as I thought, when it ended with blood-flowing from the sword-arm of the count at 12.21. The count was satisfied and breathing heavily. Forbes was fresh and strong.