“No time like the present. Come on.”
Not another word was spoken between us; but, the instant after, our blades were clinking in the fierce game of thrust and parry.
The affair was short. At the third or fourth lunge, I ran my antagonist through the right shoulder, disabling his arm. His sword fell jingling among the pebbles.
“You have wounded me!” cried he; “I am disarmed,” he added, pointing to the fallen blade. “Enough, sir; I am satisfied.”
“But not I—not till you have knelt upon these stones, and asked pardon from her whom you have so grossly insulted.”
“Never!” cried he; “never!”—and as he uttered these words, giving, as I presumed, a proof of determined courage, he turned suddenly; and, to my utter astonishment, commenced running away from the ground!
I ran after, and soon overtook him. I could have thrust him in the back, had I been sanguinarily inclined; but instead, I contented myself with giving him a foot-salute, in what Gallagher would have termed his “postayriors,” and with no other adieu, left him to continue his shameful flight.