'All a mistake,' said Morganstjern, beginning to pant as he was pressed on in turn and driven back.
'Is this folly or fury—do you really wish to quarrel?' asked Lewie Baronald; but the other made no reply, though his eyes became inflamed, his colour deepened, his teeth were set and his brows knit; and though he laughed, the sound of his laughter was strange and unnatural.
This game at sharps was certainly jest with Baronald, though he little liked his opponent; but he soon became aware that the eyes of the latter seemed to become more bloodshot, that his cheek paled, his grasp grew firmer on his hilt; that his thrusts came quickly and fiercely—in short, that beyond all doubt, under cover of a little pretended sword-play, he had—murder in his heart!
They were rivals for the love of Dolores, yet Morganstjern had not the courage to challenge Baronald to a regular mortal duel. His bearing now, and the perilous thrust arrested by his gorget, were a warning to the latter of that which Morganstjern was now capable—killing him by design, without peril to himself, while he would affect that it was done by mere chance in rough jest; and had Baronald been run through the body, the Heer would have been ready to affirm and swear that it was all done by the merest accident.
Baronald felt his blood getting warm; he knew that duelling was sternly discouraged by the Dutch authorities; and that to kill the cousin of Dolores, even in self-defence, would preclude all chance of possessing her favour.
But a strong measure was absolutely necessary. Darting forward he suddenly locked-in—seized his adversary's sword-arm, by twining his left arm round it, thus closing his parade hilt to hilt, and disarmed him by literally wrenching his sword from his grasp.
Pale as death now, panting, and with eyes flashing fire, Morganstjern stood before the victor, who, presenting the captured sword by the blade, said, with a kind of smile:
'This rough play is being carried too far—here let it end.'
Hissing out some execration, Morganstjern took his sword by the hilt, and in the blind excesss of his fury would have plunged it into the breast of Baronald, but at the moment it was struck up by another sword, as two officers of the Scots Brigade, Francis, Lord Lindores, and the Master of Dumbarton, threw themselves between them.
'We do but jest, gentlemen,' said Morganstjern, lifting his hat and sheathing his sword.