“You have a strong wrist and a prodigious good fence, Mr. Montagu, but if you will pardon a word of criticism I think your guard too high.”
“Y’are not here to instruct me, Sir Robert, but——”
“To kill you. Quite so!” he interrupted jauntily. “Still, a friendly word of caution—and the guard is overhigh! ’Tis the same fault my third had. I ran under it, and——” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Was that the boy you killed for defending his sister?” I asked insolently.
Apparently my hit did not pierce the skin. “No. I’ve forgot the nomination of the gentleman. What matter? He has long been food for worms. Pardon me, I see blood trickling down your sword arm. Allow me to offer my kerchief.”
“Thanks! ’Twill do as it is. Art ready?”
“Lard, yes! And guard lower, an you love me. The high guard is the one fault— Well parried, Montagu!—I find in Angelo’s pupils. Correcting that, you would have made a rare swordsman in time.”
His use of the subjunctive did not escape me. “I’m not dead yet,” I panted.
I parried a feint une-deux, in carte, with the parade in semicircle, and he came over my blade, thrusting low in carte. His laugh rang out clear as a boy’s, and the great eyes of the man blazed with the joy of fight.
“Gad, you’re quick to take my meaning! Ah! You nearly began the long journey that time, my friend.”