Lot Hardacre snarled like a hurt dog, staggered, and fell back against Mr. Beaty, who had sprung forward to catch him. A broadening patch of scarlet showed on the white shirt, and blood trickled down the wounded man’s sword-arm. He recovered himself, thrust Bob Beaty off with an oath, and stood on guard. Jeffray, who was watching him with his point lowered, drew back and held his sword crosswise across his thigh.
“You are hard hit, Lot,” he said; “you are not fit to fight again.”
Mr. Hardacre ground his teeth and swore at him.
“Are you afraid?” he retorted.
“I warn you—”
“Damn you, put your point up.”
Lot made a dash at him, his mouth working, his eyes looking like the eyes of an angry dog. He thrust savagely at Jeffray, laboring with his breath, blood soaking his white shirt. Once his point grazed Jeffray, and for the moment Bess thought that the sword had passed through his body. Richard, losing patience at last as he realized the sincerity of his cousin’s hate, threw more fierceness into his play, and drove at Lot with swift good-will. For a minute or less there was a grim shimmering and shrilling of steel, a fine tussle fought out fiercely to a finish. Lot let fly a wild thrust, missed, over-reached himself, staggered as he tried to recover. In an instant Jeffray’s sword stabbed out in a flashing counter. The point smote Lot full in the chest.
Lot Hardacre gave a sharp, savage cry, faltered, and fell back two steps. His sword wavered helplessly in the air, his knees bent under him. Both Beaty and Wilson ran to catch him as he staggered and sank. The sword fell from his relaxed fingers. Jeffray, shocked at the sight of this strong man’s agony of defeat, threw his sword away, and bent over his cousin in generous distress.
“How is it with you, Lot?”
“A good quittance, and be damned to you.”