"On guard, sir," said Carrington, raising his sword.
The Colonel shrugged his shoulders, and returned to his post beside Mr. Peyton.
"Very well, gentlemen, since you will not be ruled. Are you ready?"
The rapiers clashed together, and the game began.
The Governor fenced brilliantly, if a trifle wildly; his antagonist with a cool steadiness of manner and an iron wrist. Laramore fought with bull-like ferocity, striving to beat down his opponent's guard, making mad lunges, stamping, and keeping up a continuous rumble of oaths. Sir Charles, always smiling, and with an air as if his thoughts were anywhere but at that particular spot, put aside his thrusts with the ease with which the toreador avoids the bull.
Mr. Peyton was moved to reluctant admiration. "When I was in London, sir," he said in an excited whisper to the Colonel, "I did see Mathews fight with Westwicke, and thought I had seen fencing indeed, but your cousin—ah!"
Laramore's sword described a curve in the air, and lodged in the boughs of an apple-tree, while its owner staggered forward and fell heavily to the ground. At the same instant Carrington wounded the Governor in the wrist. Colonel Verney struck up the weapons. "By the Lord, gentlemen! you shall go no further! Jack Laramore's down, run through the shoulder! Major Carrington, you have drawn blood—it is enough."
"If Sir William Berkeley is content," began Carrington, bowing to his antagonist.
"Rat me! I 've no choice," said the Governor ruefully. "You've disabled my sword arm, and the gout has the other."
"I shall be happy to wait until the wound shall have healed," said the Surveyor-General, with another bow.