At first, perhaps, because of the deadly weight of his blade--better for cut than thrust--he aimed twice at my head, and tried again a third time, then jumped back with another of his--to me--unintelligible hoarse and raucous exclamations; for, at that attempt, I had quickly--ay! and easily, too--parried the blow, had disengaged my weapon, and, with a rapid thrust, had nearly struck home--had missed the inside of his ribs by an inch only. Then knew that the next time I should not fail.
"Curse you," I muttered, "if I could speak your patois, I'd tell you that you are doomed." While to myself I said: "He is a clumsy fool, and--he is mine."
We had turned in these passadoes, as I drove him back; so, too, I had edged him round. Now, 'twas I who had the rock behind me, 'twas he who had the declivity of the lower precipice behind him.
And he knew it as well as I--saw in a moment all that this meant, and--endeavoured to turn again.
Yet he never had the chance. Trust me for that!--as my recollection of the daily lessons in the fence school at Hounslow, which for a year Dutch William's best ferrailleurs had taught me ere my father got my guidon for me.
He never had the chance! Yet he strove hard for it, too; proved that Spain made no bad choice when she sent him to this frontier post; strove hard to beat me round again, to bring my back in the position his was--to the lip of the plateau--and failed.
If I could have spoken to him in his patois--for 'twas scarce Spanish--if I could have made him understand, if he would have discontinued his contest with me, I would have spared him, and willingly; would have bidden him let me go in peace, and be saved himself. For he was a brave man; too good a one for the doom that must now be his. Yet he forced me to it, forced me to go on, ceased not for one instant his swinging blows and thrusts, forced me to parry and thrust in turn for my own salvation--to drive him back step by step to the brink of the precipice behind him. And, now, it was not five paces behind him.
His was the danger--I wondered if he knew it--yet mine the horror. Above the clashing of our swords I heard now the dull, hoarse roaring of the river below, heard its angry swish as it struck past the timbers of the bridge below--in my desire to save him I told him madly in my best Spanish to desist--to save himself. Also, I think, he saw upon my face some look of horror at the fate that must be his, some beads of sweat, perhaps, upon it, too--I know I felt them there--saw them, and--God help him!--misunderstood them. Misunderstood, and thought my look of horror, my sweat, were for my own safety.
With a leap, a roar, he came at me again like a tiger springing at its prey, his blows raining upon my sword; almost I thought that even now he would have borne me to the earth, have conquered. And I thrust blindly, too, in desperation, knew that my blade was through his arm, saw him jump back, stagger--and disappear!
And up from below where he had last stood there came a scream of awful fear and terror, the branches and the bushes crashed, there was a thud upon the water a hundred feet below--and then nothing more but the swirl of the river and its hoarse murmur as it swept along.