He had a nasty face though, the boy considered, and looked like a bounder because he had pimples, a swelly nose, a loud voice, and a swanky manner. The boy disapproved of him wholly. It was like his cheek to resemble Father, as well as to have the same name.
His companion came over to the gentleman called Will, carrying the strong man’s bared sword and, bowing ridiculously (with his hat, both hands, and his feet) said:—
“Shall we measure, Captain Ormonde Delorme?”
Captain Delorme then took the sword from Sir Seymour, bowed as the other had done, and handed him the sword with a mighty flourish, hilt first.
It proved to be half an inch shorter than the other, and Captain Delorme remarked that his Principal would waive that.
He and the strong man’s companion then chose a spot where the grass was very short and smooth, where there were no stones, twigs or inequalities, and where the light of the setting sun fell sideways upon the combatants—who tip-toed gingerly, and rather ridiculously, in their stockinged feet, to their respective positions. Facing each other, they saluted with their swords and then stood with the right arm pointing downwards and across the body so that the hilt of the sword was against the right thigh and the blade directed to the rear.
“One word, Sir Matthew de Warrenne,” said Sir Seymour as they paused in this attitude. “If my point rests for a second on your hilt you are a dead man.”
Sir Matthew laughed in an ugly manner and replied:—
“And what is your knavish design now, Sir Seymour Stukeley?”
“My design was to warn you of an infallible trick of fence, Sir Matthew. It now is to kill you—for the insult, and on behalf of … your own unhappy daughter.”