His adversary, turning back the sleeves of the unfortunate white linen,
picked up the other sword, and practiced his fingering on the silver
hilt, while the blade answered as delicately as the bow to a violinist.
At last he came forward, with thin lips and hard, thoughtful eyes, like
a man bent upon dispatch. Both men saluted formally, and sprang
on guard.
From the first twitter of the blades, even Rudolph knew the outcome.
Heywood, his face white and anxious in the failing light, fought at full
stretch, at the last wrench of skill. Chantel, for the moment, was
fencing; and though his attacks came ceaseless and quick as flame, he
was plainly prolonging them, discarding them, repeating, varying,
whether for black-hearted merriment, or the vanity of perfect form, or
love of his art. Graceful, safe, easy, as though performing the grand
salute, he teased and frolicked, his bright blade puzzling the sight,
scattering like quicksilver in the endless whirl and clash.
Teppich was gaping foolishly, Sturgeon shaking his head, the Cockney,
with narrow body drawn together, watching, shivering, squatting on toes
and finger-tips, like a runner about to spring from a mark.
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