For several minutes this cautious play continued, without further sparks, or only such as appeared to scintillate from the eyes of the combatants. Then came a counter-thrust, quickly followed by a counter parry, with no advantage to either.
Long ere this, an observer acquainted with the weapons they were wielding, could have seen that of the two Kearney was the better swordsman. In changing from carte to tierce, or reversely, the young Irishman showed himself possessed of the power to keep his arm straight and do the work with his wrist, whilst the Creole kept bending his elbow, thus exposing his forearm to the adversary’s point. It is a rare accomplishment among swordsmen, but, when present, insuring almost certain victory, that is, other circumstances being equal.
In Kearney’s case, it perhaps proved the saving of his life; since it seemed to be the sole object of his antagonist to thrust in upon him, heedless of his own guard. But the long, straight point, from shoulder far outstretched, and never for an instant obliquely, foiled all his attempts.
After a few thrusts, Santander seemed surprised at his fruitless efforts. Then over his face came a look more like fear. It was the first time in his duelling experience he had been so baffled, for it was his first encounter with an adversary who could keep a straight arm.
But Florence Kearney had been taught tierce as well as carte, and knew how to practise it. For a time he was prevented from trying it by the other’s impetuous and incessant thrusting, which kept him continuously at guard, but as the sword-play proceeded, he began to discover the weak points of his antagonist, and, with a well-directed thrust, at length sent his blade through the Creole’s outstretched arm, impaling it from wrist to elbow.
An ill-suppressed cry of triumph escaped from the Kentuckian’s lips, while with eyes directed towards the other second, he seemed to ask—
“Are you satisfied?”
Then the question was formally put.
Duperon looked in the face of his principal, though without much show of interrogating him. It seemed as if he already divined what the answer would be.
“A la mort!” cried the Creole, with a deadly emphasis and bitter determination in his dark sinister eyes.