Then the spectators, of whom there were fully two score, made a ring, and Griscelli and I (having meanwhile doffed our hats, coats, and shirts), stepped into the arena.
I had not handled a sword for years, and for aught I knew Griscelli might be a consummate swordsman and in daily practice. On the other hand, he was too stout to be in first-rate condition, and, besides being younger, I had slightly the advantage in length of arm.
When the word was given to begin, he opened the attack with great energy and resolution, and was obviously intent on killing me if he could. For a minute or two it was all I could do to hold my own; and partly to test his strength and skill, partly to get my hand in, I stood purposely on the defensive.
At the end of the first bout neither of us had received a scratch, but Griscelli showed signs of fatigue while I was quite fresh. Also he was very angry and excited, and when we resumed he came at me with more than his former impetuosity, as if he meant to bear me down by the sheer weight and rapidity of his strokes. His favorite attack was a cut aimed at my head. Six several times he repeated this manoeuvre, and six times I stopped the stroke with the usual guard. Baffled and furious, he tried it again, but—probably because of failing strength—less swiftly and adroitly. My opportunity had come. Quick as thought I ran under his guard, and, thrusting his right arm aside with my left hand, passed my sword through his body.
Then there were cries of bravo, for the popular feeling was on my side, and my seconds congratulated me warmly on my victory. But I said little in reply, my attention being attracted by a young man who was kneeling beside Griscelli’s body and, as it might seem, saying a silent prayer. When he had done he rose to his feet, and as I looked on his face I saw he was the dead man’s son.
“Sir, you have killed my father, and I shall kill you,” he said, in a calm voice, but with intense passion. “Yes, I shall kill you, and if I fail my cousins will kill you. If you escape us all, then we will charge our children to avenge the death of the man you have this day slain. We are Corsicans, and we never forgive. I know your name; mine is Giuseppe Griscelli.”
“You are distraught with grief, and know not what you say,” I said as kindly as I could, for I pitied the lad. “But let not your grief make you unjust. Your father died in fair fight. If I had not killed him he would have killed me, and years ago he tried to hunt me to death for his amusement.”
“And I and mine—we will hunt you to death for our revenge. Or will you fight now? I am ready.”
“No, I have no quarrel with you, and I should be sorry to hurt you.”
“Go your way, then, but remember—”