For quite twenty minutes the sanguinary strife continued without any marked advantage to either. It was a spectacle somewhat painful to behold, the combatants themselves being a sight to look upon. Kearney’s shirt of finest white linen showed like a butcher’s; his sleeves encrimsoned; his hands, too, grasping his rapier hilt, the same—not with his own blood, but that of his adversary, which had run back along the blade; his face was spotted by the drops dashed over it from the whirling wands of steel.
Gory, too, was the face of Santander; but gashed as well. Bending forward to put in a point, the Creole had given his antagonist a chance, resulting to himself in a punctured cheek, the scar of which would stay there for life.
It was this brought the combat to an end; or, at all events, to its concluding stroke. Santander, vain of his personal appearance, on feeling his cheek laid open, suddenly lost command of himself, and with a fierce oath rushed at his adversary, regardless of the consequences.
He succeeded in making a thrust, though not the one he intended. For having aimed at Kearney’s heart, missing it, his blade passed through the buckle of the young Irishman’s braces, where in an instant it was entangled.
Only for half a second; but this was all the skilled swordsman required. Now, first since the fight began, his elbow was seen to bend. This to obtain room for a thrust, which was sent, to all appearance, home to his adversary’s heart.
Every one on the ground expected to see Santander fall; for by the force of the blow and direction Kearney’s blade should have passed through his body, splitting the heart in twain. Instead, the point did not appear to penetrate even an inch! As it touched, there came a sound like the chinking of coin in a purse, with simultaneously the snap of a breaking blade, and the young Irishman was seen standing as in a trance of astonishment, in his hand but the half of a sword, the other half gleaming amongst the grass at his feet.
It seemed a mischance, fatal to Florence Kearney, and only the veriest dastard would have taken advantage of it. But this Santander was, and once more drawing back, and bringing his blade to tierce, he was rushing on his now defenceless antagonist, when Crittenden called “Foul play!” at the same time springing forward to prevent it.
His interference, however, would have been too late, and in another instant the young Irishman would have been stretched lifeless along the sward, but for a second individual who had watched the foul play—one who had been suspecting it all along. The sword of Santander seen flying off, as if struck out of his grasp, and his arm dropping by his side, with blood pouring from the tips of his fingers, were all nearly simultaneous incidents, as also the crack of a rifle and a cloud of blue smoke suddenly spurting up over one of the carriages, and half-concealing the colossal figure of Cris Rock, still seated on the box. Out of that cloud came a cry in the enraged voice of the Texan, with words which made all plain—
“Ye darned Creole cuss! Take that for a treetur an’ a cowart! Strip the skunk! He’s got sumthin’ steely under his shirt; I heerd the chink o’ it.”
Saying which he bounded down from the box, sprang over the water-ditch, and rushed on towards the spot occupied by the combatants.