Minutes passed that seemed hours—there were sudden pauses when we could detect the thud of feet and the hiss of breath drawn sharply between shut teeth. And now, to my amazement, I saw that Mr. Tawnish was pressing the attack, answering thrust with thrust, and longe with longe. The fighting grew to a positive frenzy; the shivering blades rang with their swift changes from quarte to tierce.
"Such a pace cannot last," says I, to no one in particular, "the end must come soon!"
Almost with the words, I saw Mr. Tawnish's blade waver aimlessly; Raikes saw it too, and drove in a lightning thrust. There was a sharp clash of meeting steel, a flurry of blades, and Sir Harry Raikes staggered back, his eyes wide and staring, threw up his arms, and pitching forward, rolled over with a groan.
Chapter Eight
Wherein the Truth of the old Adage is made
manifest—to wit: All's well that
ends well
So swift and altogether unexpected had been the end, that for a long minute there was a strange, tense stillness, a silence wherein all eyes were turned from the motionless form on the floor, with the ever-widening stain upon the snow of his shirt, to where Mr. Tawnish stood, leaning upon his small-sword. Then all at once pandemonium seemed to break loose—some running to lift the wounded man, some wandering round aimlessly, but all talking excitedly, and at the same time.
"Dick and Bentley," says Jack, mopping at his face with his handkerchief, "it's in my mind that we have made a cursed mistake for once—the fellow is a man."
"I've known that this month and more," says I.
"I say a man," repeated Jack, "and devil anoint me, I mean a man!"
"Who writes verses!" added Bentley.