“Now, meddler,” resumed Frazer, turning back to Vytal, who maintained his guard in silence, “I’ll teach you the stoccata, as ’tis done before the queen. The stoccata—’tis thus!” Whereat the youth, with a quick wrist, thrust skilfully. But his blade was parried with apparent ease. “’Slid!” he exclaimed, betraying himself yet more the braggart, as he realized the dexterity of Vytal, nevertheless a brave braggart, which is an uncommon combination. “Body o’ Cæsar! but you know the special rules! Now this, for instance, the imbroccata,” and he thrust again more viciously in tierce. For several minutes the rapiers crossed and recrossed, quick, slender gleams dancing in the lanthorn-light. “And this, the punto,” said Frazer, still persisting in his rôle of master, while Vytal, more than ten years his senior, spoke no word, but only fenced and fenced, controlling the other’s point and awaiting an opening. “And the reverso—there—there—there again, and the passada—thus—’Slud! the bodkin stitches quickly—the tool’s full of tricks—God! I’m undone—”
But no, for at this instant the rapier of St. Magil came darting forward like a snake to parry the thrust from his friend’s breast, and now it was two, side by side, against the one who held the doorway. The crowd stood breathless, spellbound. Never had they seen such play of weapons.
Vytal drew a dagger with his left hand; his antagonists instantly responded. But he was willing to risk that, considering the increase of his own advantage greater than the addition to theirs. And now the rapiers played, with an under meaning, as it were, in the vicious poniards. Here was a contest between men who knew the art, and lived by it, and could live by naught else now but a successful practice of their knowledge. Up and down, to and fro, the rapiers made their way, now fast, now slower, like silver moon-rays on the river below, while hither and thither, prying about for an open spot, the flat poniards ran with far more venom though less grace.
And still Vytal held his ground, even gaining at the last, for St. Magil breathed heavily, and the youth beside him had gone white as death.
But it was then that several new-comers, led by Gorm, the bear-ward, entered the bridge street by the Southwark Gate. Having broadswords ready drawn and curses on their lips for Vytal, their intention was evident. One the people recognized as him who had been flogged instead of the blinded bear he had been flogging. Their onrush against the soldier, however, was delayed for an instant by the sight of the furious fight before them. On seeing them, Vytal’s face grew graver. “Curs!” he muttered, and then, in a voice just loud enough to rise above the clash of steel, “Watkins, seek Rouse!—the ‘Tabard!’”
At this, the breeches-maker, upbraiding himself for his demented negligence, strove to break through the throng, but could not. In despair, he groaned aloud. Just then, however, Vytal found Frazer’s hilt with his rapier-point, and, maintaining his guard for the instant with dagger alone, threw the weapon high in air, and across the street, where it fell, ringing, at the feet of Christopher Marlowe. And Vytal’s voice rose above the clamor of invective in a short, sharp cry: “Hugh! Roger! To me!” For the bear-wards from the garden were now opposing his rapier with their heavy blades. Yet he still held the door, rendering entrance to the breeches-maker’s shop and to the girl within it as difficult as ever. He heard a voice from across the threshold imploring him to save himself, if he could, by leaving the shop-door—and that low voice, coming to him from behind the barrier, then again from an upper window, where the girl watched with wonder his gallant defence of her, only nerved his arm to the more strenuous endeavor.
We have said that the rapier of which Vytal had deprived Frazer fell at the feet of Marlowe. It came like an invitation to him—almost a command. Similarly inspiration had come more than once to fire his genius and kindle the flame that irradiated his poetry, but here for the first time inspiration shone to show him another outlet for his ardor; the lustre of mere portrayal paled before the forked lightning of those swords at work, while his thoughts, at first suggesting some future depiction of the scene, gave way to hot impulse. His blood ran riotously in his veins, and as he leaped forward to Vytal’s side with Frazer’s rapier ready, all his art was the art of fence, all his spirit the spirit of action.
But his opportune aid, though immediately appreciable in holding back the soldier’s assailants, was soon diverted by the latter to another course.
“Quick!” said Vytal, in a low voice. “Go you in by the door behind us. Up—” his words came disjointedly, being broken by some extra-hazardous thrust or parry demanding unusual attention—“up, there—through the shop—ah, they almost had you—control his point another minute—take her with you through the porter’s lodge—it can be done—quick!—and then whither she will—to some place—of safety—but remember the place—meet me at the ‘Tabard’ later.”
“Meet you!” ejaculated Marlowe, still with eyes on every movement of the adversaries. “No man could hold out singly—against—this army. I came to save your life—not for some intrigue.”