"We have no surgeon here, I perceive," he smiled. "Ah well, so much the better." So saying, he took up the nearest sword haphazard, twirled it, made a rapid pass in the air and stood waiting.
"My Lord Cleeve," said the Major as the Colonel drew his weapon and stepped forward, "when once we engage you will on no account strike up our swords——"
"But damme, man Jack, how if you wound each other——"
"Why then sir," murmured Mr. Dalroyd quietly, testing the suppleness of his blade, "we shall proceed to—exterminate one another. This is to the death, my lord!"
The library was a long, spacious chamber with the broad fireplace at one end; moreover the Sergeant had already set back the furniture against the wall and rolled up the rugs out of the way. Lord Cleeve glanced round about him quick-eyed, ordered the candles to be disposed a little differently that there might be no advantage of light, then, folding his arms, glanced from the pale, serene face of the Major to the cold, smiling face of Mr. Dalroyd as they fronted each other sword in hand in the middle of the wide floor.
"Then, 'tis understood, I am not to part ya', not to interfere until——"
"Until one of us is dead, my lord!" said Mr. Dalroyd, his nostrils quivering.
"Exactly so!" said the Major. "Sergeant Zebedee—lock the door!"
Lord Cleeve shrugged his shoulders: "'Tis a damnably cold-blooded business altogether!" said he as the Sergeant turned key in lock.
"Agreed, sir!" smiled Mr. Dalroyd. "But pray be so obliging as to give the word."