“Quite!” murmured Sir John, and drawing his sword he tossed the scabbard upon the table, and approaching Lord Sayle, saluted and fell to his guard.
Slimmer than usual he looked as he stood thus gracefully poised, and of no great stature, yet, in that moment, observing his eyes and mouth, no one would have called him “insignificant”—especially one who leaned against the door, hands clenched, eyes wide, waiting for what was to be.
The narrow blades crossed, and immediately rose a thud of quick-moving, purposeful feet and clink of murderous steel. Lord Sayle’s onset was impetuous as usual, his attacks viciously direct and powerful; but time and again his darting point was met, his lightning thrusts parried, though only just in time, and as if more by accident than skill; noting which, he laughed scornfully and pressed his attack more fiercely; twice he forced Sir John to break ground until, espying an opening in his antagonist’s defence after a wide parade, he lounged swiftly, gasped and, dropping his weapon, staggered with Sir John’s blade transfixing his sword-arm from wrist to elbow.
And now was confusion: a wild ringing of bells, calling for water and sponges, running for lint and bandages, while Sir John did on his shoes, and eased himself into his tight-fitting riding-coat.
My Lord Sayle, a-sprawl in arm-chair while his friends washed and stanched his wounds, alternately cursed and groaned, heaping his late antagonist with passionate revilings and bitter invective until, what with anger and pain, his voice failed him at last.
Then Sir John spoke in chilling scorn:
“Thou contemptible thing! Thou man of straw! Egad, and can it be you set all London by the ears? ’S life, my lord, your fencing is like your manners, exceeding indifferent. I might ha’ killed you any time I wished!”
My Lord Sayle struggled to his feet, raving like a madman and calling for his sword, until, constrained by his friends, he sank back in the chair and suffered their ministrations, but raving still.
“You shall suffer for this.... Aye, burn me, but you shall! This is but the beginning ... we meet again ... aye, by all the fiends in hell I’ll ha’ your life for this ... you shall fight me again so soon as I am able!”
“With joy, my lord!” answered Sir John, wiping his blade on his lordship’s sky-blue coat that chanced to lie handy. “’Twas purely for this reason that I suffered you to live. Indeed, my lord, I hope to repeat the pleasure of this little rencontre on every possible occasion until I run you out of England. And you should soon be well, for your wound, though painful, is nothing dangerous. One word more, my lord: as regards your sword-play, I should advise a few lessons at your weapon against our next meeting. Au revoir! Gentlemen, your servant!” Then, having bowed to the silent company, Sir John reached out his hand to her who stood leaning against the door. “Come, child!” said he, and led her out of the room, closing the door behind them; then she stopped to face him, her eyes bright, her ruddy lips a-quiver.