“I claim cavalry sabres. I have two. You shall have your choice.”
Severn snarled at him.
“You prefer being slashed to pricked, eh? Very good. One second each will serve. At six to-morrow morning.”
“When you please.”
Severn became suddenly and splendidly polite.
“Captain Blake, it will be a pleasure. What do you say to that little field at the back of the fir plantation on the main road down yonder? You know it?”
“Yes.”
“At six, then. I have a friend at my house who will act for me. I shall be happy to choose one of your sabres. I wish you a very good night.”
His politeness had thinned to an ironical and sneering playfulness, but Blake had been born with a stiff back. Yet he saw how Royce Severn had trodden on the courage of those other men, and half cowed them before they had crossed swords.
“It is a pretty thing, a cavalry sabre, sir. May you, too, pass a good night. I shall go home and get some sleep.”