“So you do not believe me, Captain Blake?”
“No, I do not, sir; or I should not have turned so far out of my way to call you a liar and a coward.”
Both men felt that it had come, that they were like dogs doomed to be at each other’s throats, but Severn strolled forward with a casual air, flicking his hunting-crop to and fro as though he were beating time to a piece of music. And that arrogant self-confidence of his fooled him. He had to do with an athlete that night, a man who had matched himself to run and leap against Indians, and not with some heavy squireling or town gallant out of condition with drink and cards. For Blake took a standing leap at Severn, covered ten foot of ground at the spring, and got such a blow home as sent the big man sprawling.
Blake was on him, and had wrenched the hunting-crop away. He broke it across his knee, and threw the pieces into a furze bush.
“If you want a broken fist, sir, I have an oak sapling that will wipe out that blow you gave me two hours ago.”
But Severn was up, in far too wild a rage for sticks or fisticuffs.
“Fool, I should have warned you with a sword-prick through the arm, but now, by the woman I mean to marry, I will kill you.”
“Leave it at that!”
“Choose your weapons. I’ll meet you with whatever you please.”
Blake smiled over set teeth.