“Lord Oakleigh, have you come hither on purpose to assassinate me?”
“Will you give me the promise?”
“I will not!”
“Then (the oaths he muttered in his mad rage were horrible) I’ll show you for I am here! Take that!”
The first movement he made and he made it furiously, told his fell purpose.
He had drawn his sword, a heavy infantry sabre, of the pattern worn by the higher officers when on active service, and his first movement, following immediately upon the words he had spoken, was a direct, powerful lunge at the other’s bosom.
But our hero had been on his guard and was prepared. Probably there was not a better swordsman in Headlandshire than was he.
With a downward and outward sweep of his heavy staff he struck the blade aside, and his lordship’s own impetus, with the expected resistance thus removed, came near to sending him prone upon the earth. But he quickly recovered himself and came on again.
And again did Percy beat his blade aside,—and again; and by and by he gave his lordship a rap on the knuckles that made him groan aloud in his pain.
“Oakleigh! if you do not desist, I will break your arm; or I will lame it for you so that you will not wield a sword again for a time at least. Beware!”