CHAPTER XV
Tells How I Fleshed My Sword
A moment later and the clash of steel rose merrily above the thunder of the waves; and with each movement of my sword the eager blood rushed faster through my veins and gave new zest to life. In short, I revelled in the business, and thought no more of lurking death than you do when you breathe. I had learned swordsmanship beneath my father's trained and watchful eye; the blade I wielded was his gift to me; my foes were Ferguson's own hirelings. What more could any man require to give him skill and courage? I needed nothing else at any rate; and so, with tight-set lips and watchful eye, I fought beneath the moon.
As for my adversaries, notwithstanding that they had been made to fight against their will, and thus lacked spirit, they yet soon proved themselves to be no paltry swordsmen; indeed, they showed such knowledge of the game that I was more than once hard put to it to save myself from thrust or cut. But, verily, my length of reach exceeded theirs by many inches--moreover, zeal and hatred count for much--and so it was not long before I sent one of them (he who had tried to bind me) reeling with a sword-thrust in the heart. His death-cry echoed loud above us in the cliffs, then down he crashed, a harmless heap, upon the shingle.
At that the other leapt back panting, and stared at me with fearful, terror-stricken eyes.
"Enough!" gasped he. "I yield!"
"Down with your sword, then," I answered sternly.
He cast his weapon to the ground, and, turning, would have fled; but in a moment I had darted after him and seized him by the neck.
"Hold! not so fast!" I said, shaking him till his teeth clicked. "To save your miserable life is one thing, to spread tidings is another."
"I swear to spread no tidings," came his chattering answer.