“Don’t let him worry on my account,” said the officer, in good English. “Let him keep whatever weapon he chooses. Perhaps he would like to have a pistol also.”
It seemed strange that the officer, who was a high official not far below the governor himself, should want to fight a duel with a man like Howard. He evidently intended to kill him, for he took no pains to hinder his clearing with his ship, and appeared eager to come to a personal settlement.
A line was drawn across the sand, and the two combatants advanced to it, the officer not above middle age and graceful, his sword held in proper manner before him and his feet set at the right distance apart, while his left hand he held poised at a level with his shoulder in the rear.
Howard grasped his scabbard in his left hand, with its belt wrapped about it, and, holding it high above him, advanced his cutlass’s point, and proceeded to work with no more concern than if he were prodding a lazy sailor.
The sun had risen, and the sea was a beautiful blue offshore, the gentle rippling along the beach sounding musically. The breeze just rustled the foliage overhead, and made a low, continuous clicking which blended with the sound of the steel. The air was warm, but fresh with the odour of the sea, and the two men facing each other felt its bracing influences, for they were hard at it in an instant, the old skipper breaking forth into a high, cackling laugh, as he swung his weapon with marvellous quickness. It was evidently great sport for him, and he was enjoying it.
The dago’s glinting black eyes shone fiercely as he thrust and lunged, with the black lust of murder in his heart, determined to rid the world of a villain. He was an expert swordsman, and accounted Howard a dead rascal. But the ways of Providence are strange. It won’t do to trust that the wicked will be punished and the good go unscathed. The ways of the Almighty Power are inscrutable, and to dictate a policy against crime, with oneself as the avenger, is a dangerous undertaking. The Almighty has a way of his own for dealing with all things, and the fallible human being is not consulted with a view to proving who or which is best.
The very confidence of the officer made me nervous. His fierce smile seemed to hold contempt and disdain for his antagonist, who, with his old scabbard held high in rear, ambled about the sandy shore like some old reptile, the perspiration starting out on the top of his bald poll and running down his expressionless face in little streams.
Once he was pricked sorely in the side, but the old fellow only laughed in his high, cackling voice, and swung his cutlass with renewed vigour.
Four, five, ten minutes passed, and the conflict waxed hotter and the men began to breathe heavily. The officer’s face was pale and calm with a fixed resolution. His breath came in sharp, rasping jerks, but his eye was bright and watchful, and he was much lighter and quicker on his feet.
Suddenly he lunged out and pressed the old man fiercely. Howard’s scabbard sank lower and lower behind him until he let it trail upon the ground. He was getting tired, though his face showed nothing. The officer stabbed him badly in the arm, and there was a look in his eyes that told of the finish. With a movement quick as lightning, the sailor transferred his sword to his left hand, and came on with his fresh wrist, working with the precision of the trained fencer.