“’Tis to be to the finish, doctor,” said Clancarty coolly, that dangerous smile on his lips.
“A devilish poor plan,” said the doctor, with a shrug; “it will take more than my skill to resuscitate a corpse.”
“We shall not expect a miracle—even from the great Dr. Radcliffe,” replied Clancarty.
Mr. Benham and young Mackie were measuring the ground. Denis, in the meantime, turned his face away and looked toward the setting sun; it may be that he was wishing for the shoes he wore at Boyne, but it is not recorded. The clouds overhead were red and the level meadows bathed in the slanting rays of light; long shadows fell across the scene; a bird sang in the grove of limes.
The two men stepped into the open, stripped of coats and waistcoats, their white shirts showing vividly against the green background. Lord Savile was flushed, but Clancarty’s face was singularly serene. The signal was given; their weapons flashed, and there was the sudden ring of steel on steel.
Ah, ’twas a wonderful duel; afterwards, men spoke of it as a kind of triumph in the art of duelling, and Dr. Radcliffe described it to the Princess Anne and the Duke of Marlborough. Clancarty was an Irishman and therefore a born fighter, though the Englishmen of that day thought all Irishmen cowards because the poor, barefoot peasants ran before the trained battalions of the English and Dutch. Moreover, the young earl had served a long apprenticeship on the Continent; and in France duelling was the breath of men’s nostrils. Clancarty fought that day recklessly and beautifully; he was lithe and graceful as a panther, with a wrist like steel and an eye that never faltered, and he had met no mean antagonist; my Lord Savile was counted one of the best swordsmen in the Guards, and hating his opponent he fought with fury.
Steel ground on steel and the sparks flew, thrust and parry, point and blade, stroke on stroke. The others watched in breathless admiration; they even forgot their individual interest in the struggle and stood gaping like schoolboys. Both men were tired, yet both played on, evenly matched, relentless and reckless. There was a sudden thrust over Savile’s guard and then, in an instant, Lord Clancarty’s sword snapped at the hilt, just as Savile’s crossed it and passed into his breast. It was over in a moment, and he lay full length on the turf and the blood was flowing from a cut in his antagonist’s neck.
“Oh, my lord, my own dear lord!” wailed Denis, falling on his knees, and even Lord Savile’s face was white as chalk.
In the dimly lighted hall of the inn that night, Denis, with a lined, drawn face, white as a dead man’s, laid something in Lady Betty’s hand.