Their swords crossed close to the hilt; Sir Perseus slipped and fell to his knees in the shadows of the window.
“Sir—on your knees—” said Sir John. “Take back your lies—”
Sir Perseus, desperate, tried to catch at the descending sword, tried to rise, to cry out, but Sir John’s thrust went through his feeble guard and his blade quivered at his throat.
“Which King?” cried the Master of Stair. “Which cause? And what think you now of Lady Dalrymple’s champion?”
With that Sir Perseus struggled up, slipped forward and the point of the Master’s sword went a hand’s-breadth into his breast.
He went heavily onto his side and Sir John stepped back, elate and passionate; slipping his sword back with a lift of his shoulders.
“Do you see me, Jacobite?” he said scornfully. “Do you see this?”
He snatched up the pamphlets, three or four at a time, and thrust them into the candle flame. As they flared up in his hand he flung them on the hearth and set his heel on the ashes; he turned, looked at the prone man.
“Do you see?” he repeated. “Do you see, dog, what I make of your work?”
Sir Perseus made a faint movement.