The bearing of Champfleurie, which previous to this had been cool, contemptuous, and defiant, now became furious and wrathful.
He lunged and thrust almost at random; and twice Fawside contrived to secure his blade by arresting it in the ironwork of his own hilt; he was thus enabled to retain it, and, locking in, to menace the throat of Champfleurie with his dagger; but twice he generously released the blade, which he might easily have snapped from its hilt; and thus the combat was twice renewed, after they had breathed a little, and glared into each other's pale and excited faces.
The skill and generosity of Florence excited even the admiration of Kilmaurs, who exclaimed,—
"Well and nobly done, Fawside! But that I am sworn to be thine enemy I could wish thee for a friend. Another such mischance, Champfleurie, and by Heaven thou art a lost man!"
On each of these occasions Hackerston uttered a stentorian shout of applause, which in some measure served to dissipate the little self-possession retained by Champfleurie, who soon became almost blind with passion and hatred. In this state he soon proved an easy conquest to his antagonist, who by one tremendous blow broke his weapon to shivers, scattering the shining steel as if it had been a blade of glass, and, closing in, with the large hilt of his own rapier, struck him to the earth, and pinned him there by placing a foot on his breast. The blood flowed copiously from the mouth of the fallen man, who lay completely at the mercy of the victor.
"Champfleurie, thou mansworn loon, ask life at my hands, lest I slay thee like a venomous reptile."
"Nay, I need not ask that which is beyond your power to grant me," groaned the other.
"How, sir—what mean you?"
"That—that I am mortally wounded."
"Impossible!" exclaimed Florence with astonishment; "I did but give you a buffet with the shell of my sword—a mere buffet, sirrah."