"That knave Billington!" growled Standish: "I could have sworn he was in it! Here you! Stop that! Drop your blades, men! Drop them!"
Lister and Dotey, nothing loth, for both were wounded, obeyed the summons, and staggering back from each other stood leaning upon their swords and panting desperately, while Billington dexterously stepping backward behind an elder bush made his way forest-ward with a stealthy footstep, and a shrewd use of cover, suggestive of his former calling.
"And now what meaneth this, ye young fools!" sternly demanded Standish. "Are ye aping the sins of your betters and claiming the rights of the duello? Rights say I! Nay, 't is forbidden to any man in this colony, and ye know it well, ha?"
"Yea, Captain, we knew 't was forbidden, but we had a quarrel"—
"And why if ye must fight did ye take to deadly weapons? Have ye not a pair of fists apiece, or if that could not content ye, are there not single-sticks enow in these woods? I've a mind to take my ramrod in hand and show ye the virtue of a good stick, but I promise you that if not I, some other shall give you a lesson you'll not forget. Come, march!"
"I'm shrewdly slashed in the leg, Captain," expostulated Dotey; "and fear me I cannot walk."
"Ay? Sit down, then, and let me see. Thou 'st a sore wound in thy leather breeches, but—ay, there's a scratch beneath, but naught to hinder your moving. Here, I'll plaster it up in a twinkling."
And from the pocket of his doublet the old soldier produced a case containing some of the most essential requisites of surgery, and with a deftness and delicacy of touch, surprising to one who had not seen him beside a sick-bed, he soon had the wound safe and comfortable.
"There, man, thou 'rt fit to walk from here to Cape Cod. Many a mile have I marched with a worse wound than that, and no better than a rag or at best my belt bound round it. Now you sirrah! Hast a scratch, too?"
For reply Lister silently held out a hand whence the blood dripped freely from a cut across the palm.