If Matthew Brandon had been in any degree sober, and in possession of his reason, he would have seen that he had no show against the antagonist he had chosen.
The staff was like iron in weight, and impervious to the cutting edge of the sword; and in the hand of its owner it was really a dangerous weapon. With only a jaunty velvet cap to protect Lord Oakleigh’s head, his antagonist could, had he willed so to do, have brought his stick down upon it with force enough to crack it; and more than once had the opportunity been offered.
At length, when Brandon had become so mad and furious as to lose all control of himself, when only an insane purpose to kill urged him on in his blind, headlong attack, Percy determined to put an end to the scene.
Twice, without particular effort, he struck aside the blade, and then, as the opening was given, he brought his heavy staff down upon the back of his lordship’s right hand with a force that closed the strife.
The sword dropped to the earth, and Lord Oakleigh fairly shrieked with pain.
“You’ve broken my hand! You’ve broken my wrist!”
“Thank me that I did not break your head, which I might have done half a dozen times!”
“You shall pay for this! Oh, you shall pay for it!”
“Lord Oakleigh, you attacked me with the intent to kill me. You meant it from the first; I saw it in your face, and you did the same as to swear you would do it. Listen, now, my lord: four separate times, at least, your life was at my mercy. I could have delivered a blow on your skull that would have crushed it like an egg-shell; but I spared you. I may say to you, however, don’t depend upon my sparing you should you make a second attempt upon me, because I might not do it. And now, noble sir, you had better go home and have your hand properly cared for.”
“You’ve broken every bone in it! Oh, you shall suffer for it, be sure of that!”