“I absolutely refuse.”
“Then you are a coward. As cowardly as you are treacherous.”
“At least I am not a romantic fool.”
“As I am?”
Philippa gave a shrug and turned away, weary of the scene. Instantly she heard a quick movement behind her and felt across her shoulders the sharp sting of a blow. Turning she found Royda close behind her with rapier uplifted in the act of striking her again. Her first impulse was to rush at her assailant and try to disarm her, but Royda, anticipating this, sprang back a pace and levelled the point of her weapon at her breast.
“Coward! You shall fight me, or I will kill you! Take up that sword and defend yourself.”
“I am no coward,” Philippa retorted. “You say you have no knowledge of fence. I have. I used to practice it in town. A contest between us would not be equal, and I have no desire—”
“I care nothing for that,” Royda broke in impatiently. “Nor for your advantage in being taller and having a longer reach. I mean to fight you. At least I cannot come off worse than I stand now, and it will be some sort of satisfaction. Now will you take that sword? You shall!” For Philippa had made an impatient gesture. “The world has not room for us both.”
“I tell you again it is monstrous,” Philippa insisted, regaining her composure. “I have no wish to touch you. How have you harmed me?”
Royda was calmer now, but her determination was none the less keen and unshakable. “That is nothing in affairs of honour,” she returned impatiently. “There is seldom grievance on both sides. But to prick that bubble of excuse—have I not given you two blows? Refuse to fight me and I will utterly ruin and disgrace you. I will proclaim Aubray Zarka as your lover; I can easily prove your secret visit here to-night, and the world shall know it. You have come here as a thief and must take the consequences. You cannot escape except to absolute shame. I will talk no more. I hate you. If you do not take up that sword I swear I will run you through the heart.”