The Colonel shrugged his shoulders again, cleared his throat and took a step backwards:
"Ready, sirs!" said he curtly. "On guard!"
The narrow blades glittered, crossed, kissed lightly together and remained for a moment rigidly motionless, then, quicker than eye could follow, flashed into swift and deadly action. Followed the soft thud of swift-moving feet, the quick, light beat of the blades, now ringing sharply, now clashing and grinding, now silent altogether. Mr. Dalroyd's white teeth were bared in a confident smile as, pressing in, he beset the Major with thrust on thrust, now in the high line, now in the low, constantly changing his attack, besetting him with cunning beats and skilful twists; but cunning was met with cunning and fierce attack with calm and unerring guard.
Thus as the moments sped, the fighting grew ever more close and deadly, the blades darted and writhed unceasingly, they flashed and flickered in narrow circles, while the Sergeant, leaning broad back against locked door, watched the rapid exchanges with a fencer's eye and the Colonel forgot all else in the world but the sublime skill of their play. But as the moments dragged by, the Colonel's fingers began to pull and twist irritably at one of the buttons of his coat, and about this time too, Sergeant Zebedee's nonchalant attitude changed to one of rigid attention, his black brows twitched and in his look was dawning bewilderment; for while Mr. Dalroyd fought serene of face and tireless of arm the Major seemed to have become strangely languid and unaccountably slow, his pallid cheeks were lined with sweat and he laboured painfully in his breathing; noting all of which the Sergeant's bewilderment grew to anxiety, while Colonel Cleeve's fingers were twisting and wrenching at the button harder than ever.
Without the windows was the ceaseless rush of the wind, now rising to an angry roar, now dying to a mournful wail; within was a ceaseless tread of shoeless feet and ring of steel, now clashing fierce and loud, and always the Sergeant's anxiety increased, for the Major's parries seemed slower than ever; again and again his adversary's point, flashing perilously near, was turned only just in time, once ripping the cambric at his neck and again at shoulder; and ever Mr. Dalroyd's smile grew more confident and the spectators' anxious bewilderment the keener.
All at once the Sergeant uttered a gasp, the Colonel took a quick stride forward as Mr. Dalroyd, thrusting in tierce, flashed into carte and drove in a vicious lunge—was met by lightning riposte and flinging himself sideways sprang out of distance, a fleck of blood upon his shirt-sleeve.
"You are touched, I think, sir?" enquired the Colonel.
"Thank you, 'tis nought in the world," he answered, panting a little but with lips that curled and nostrils that quivered in his cold smile as he watched the Major who stood, haggard of face, one hand pressed to his side, his lips close-set, breathing hard through his nose.
"Art hurt, man Jack—art hurt?"
"Nay sir I—I am well enough!" he answered, forcing a ghastly smile—"when Captain Effingham is ready——"