After the exchange of a few desperate passes, they closed; and in the terrific struggle that ensued the lamp was extinguished.
The profound darkness prevented them from seeing the frightful wounds they inflicted on each other; but both knew they were severely hurt, though each hoped he was not so much injured as his adversary.
Exhausted, at length, by loss of blood, and ready to drop, they released each other by mutual consent; and, after making a few more feeble and ineffectual thrusts, leaned upon their swords for support.
"Wilt thou yield now, villain?" demanded Osmond, in a hoarse voice. "Or must I finish thee outright?"
"Finish me!" echoed Mompesson, in tones equally hoarse. "Strike another blow against me if thou canst. But I well know thou art sped. When I have recovered breath, I will make short work with thee."
"About it quickly, then," rejoined Osmond: "I am ready for thee. But thy boast was idle. Thou art bleeding to death. Twice has my poignard pierced thy breast."
"Thou wilt never use thy poignard again. Thy left arm is disabled," rejoined Mompesson—"besides, my sword passed through thee almost to the hilt."
"It glanced from my doublet: I scarcely felt the scratch."
"'Twas a scratch deep enough to let thy life-blood out. But since thou hast more to be spilt, have at thee again!"
"Where art thou?" cried Osmond, staggering towards him.