The girl was in earnest, and Philippa could but realize the helpless position she was in. Escape was impossible. At night in that strange place, deep in the centre of the rock, from which she knew no way of escape, under the very roof of her dreaded lover, Zarka, there was nothing to do but to face her enemy. Expostulation was clearly useless before the fury of the jealous girl, and Philippa felt that she must act. She stooped and took up the rapier, and as she did so Royda drew a great breath of satisfaction.
“It is good!” she said between her teeth, and, leaning her own weapon against the nearest stand of armour, proceeded to divest herself of the upper portion of her dress.
“You had better do the same,” she observed quietly and coldly. “This will not be child’s play.”
Philippa was wearing a hooded cloak over her dress. Mechanically she unfastened and laid it aside. Shrinking from the absurd wrong and wickedness of the act they were about to commit, yet recognizing that she must make this desperate stroke as her only chance of escape, she felt no trace of fear, and her hope was that she might succeed in quickly disarming her adversary and so bring the mad affair to an end almost as soon as it should begin. Still she lingered, as one naturally delays over the preparation for a distasteful act.
Royda had stood ready for many seconds before Philippa took her sword and faced her for that most extraordinary encounter. It was a strange sight. The great rock-hewn room, the array of still, mail-clad figures, standing like ghostly spectators of a more singular combat than the wearers of the armour in life had ever witnessed, the line stretching away into the obscurity of the farther end of the room, while the half light was reflected by the burnished plates of the nearest figures on to the two women, warm and panting with life and excitement, confronting each other in what might be deadly combat. Great was the contrast between them. Royda d’Ivady was dark complexioned, not much above the middle height, but exquisitely formed, the full contour of her arms and bust and the rich-blooded, olive-hued skin being shown to perfection now she had removed her bodice; her face set with determination and her pose full of watchful energy. Philippa, a good head taller, long-limbed, her skin dazzlingly white against the sombre surroundings, with magnificent arms and shoulders—one showing a great livid wale where the rapier had whipped her—her figure perfect in its natural lines and mouldings, crowned by her royally set head and wealth of light brown hair glinting as the light fell on it. So she stood, a superb specimen of womanhood, with an expression of quiet courage on her face, handling her rapier with natural grace: it was as though a lion were opposed to a leopard; both were in earnest, yet perhaps hardly conscious that the result of this unwitnessed duel might mean murder.
In a moment their light rapiers had touched, and at the contact all Royda’s fury, which had lately been restrained, seemed to rush forth at her very sword’s point. It was clear at the first assault that both girls had some general idea of thrust and parry, although neither might have any practical skill in fence. After the first few passes both fenced warily as though the very touch of the steel had brought home to them the seriousness of their encounter.
Royda pressed Philippa, whose part was purely defensive, and who parried the vicious lunges as well as she could, thanking her stars for the few casual lessons which had taught her something of the art. Availing herself of her superior height, she tried several times to beat down the other’s guard and disarm her, but failed through Royda’s alertness and her own want of precise knowledge as to how the stroke should be accomplished. Her natural coolness, however, stood her in a good stead; Royda was hot-headed, quivering with passion, and lunged so wildly that Philippa found no difficulty, by keeping her head, in putting aside the assailing point. So she continued on the defensive, hoping that Royda would soon tire; indeed, she felt confident of wearing her down if only she could keep untouched, for she was strong, and to her the slender sword was little heavier to wield than a riding whip. So they fought on; Royda, pressing forward, vindictive, panting with exertion and excitement; Philippa calm, watchful, keeping her adversary at bay by sheer cool-headedness and strength of wrist, retreating at each more furious thrust, but never taking advantage of an opening for attack when she saw one. Not a word was spoken: they moved silently over the smooth floor; the only sound that broke the silence of that great vault-like room being the subdued clash of the little rapiers and the panting of the combatants. It was unscientific sword-play, but the adversaries were well matched, and the contest none the less exciting and in deadly earnest. Royda’s point had drawn blood more than once. There was a deep graze on Philippa’s left shoulder, where she had let a lunge pass too near, and her sword arm was bleeding slightly. But neither of these trivial wounds was deep enough to be felt through the excitement of the duel and Philippa continued to take the onslaught as coolly as when the fight began.
She had been gradually obliged to give ground till she at length found herself driven to the wall, where there was nothing for it but to attack or turn, the latter a perilous manœuvre, since she would have to fight her way round at close quarters. Royda, perceiving her intention, made several quick passes, trying to frustrate it by pinning her in a corner. She was, however, beginning to tire, and so Philippa, putting forth all her strength, was able to beat down her point, and by a quick movement slip round. But as she did so her foot caught in the beading of the raised platform on which the armoured effigies stood: she recovered herself, but in the act of letting go her long skirt it impeded her spring and she stumbled. Royda, quick as lightning, seized the opportunity, and lunging swiftly pierced the side of her neck. Stung by the pain Philippa sprang backwards, thereby disengaging herself from the rapier’s point. Royda, seeing the blood trickling over her enemy’s bosom, and probably thinking the wound she had inflicted worse than it really was, stood for a moment half paralyzed with her guard lowered. Philippa, excited and confused by the wound, struck down Royda’s sword sharply and lunged. Royda could not recover in time to parry the thrust, and the point passed through the fleshy part of her sword arm. She gave a cry, dropped her rapier, and staggered back. Philippa, springing forward, caught her in her arms as she fell, and the sword, pulled by its own weight from the wound, dropped ringing to the floor.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE FIGURE IN THE VALLEY
“Oh, I am so sorry! What fools we have been!” Philippa cried, as she half carried Royda to a settee and tried to staunch the wound.