In an instant, several of the players had risen to their feet. But foremost was Burbage. He laid down his knife, and then, white with anger, he came over very deliberately to where the man stood and touched him on the shoulder.
“Have a care, my friend,” he said. “Keep a civil tongue in your head. And lay but a finger on that man, and you go into the horse-trough.”
“But you go to perdition first, you calf-livered merry-andrew.”
Grisewood had swung round with a face of fury. He drew his sword. But in almost the same moment Heriot, who had risen with the rest, had drawn his.
Grisewood had not meant to make use of his weapon. Yet in the next instant, and quite without expecting it, he was having to use it for dear life.
Gervase at once struck up the weapon with his own and then engaged it. Grisewood was a man of formidable reputation. More than one good life had paid the toll of his exceptional skill. His adversary was aware of this. But he also was an accomplished swordsman. Moreover, an intense and furious hatred had armed him suddenly. This was the man who had sworn away his life.
CHAPTER XXI
THE sound of the clashing steel, of chairs overturning, of shouting and scuffling, brought John Davenant into the room. The sight that met him turned him sick. A man of whom he went in mortal fear was defending himself as best he could from the furious lunges of a tall, elderly foreigner, who yet used his sword with all a young man’s address and agility.
“Oh, stop ’em, for the love of God!” cried John Davenant.
But the players knew better than to intervene. The bully was being pressed so close and with such a bitter animosity, that for any man to have attempted such a task had been highly dangerous. Also they knew the man for what he was. And now was as fair a chance as was ever likely to offer for him to pay his dues.