His companion came over to the gentleman called Will, carrying the strong man’s bared sword and, bowing ridiculously (with his hat, both hands, and his feet) said:—
“Shall we measure, Captain Ormonde Delorme?”
Captain Delorme then took the sword from Sir Seymour, bowed as the other had done, and handed him the sword with a mighty flourish, hilt first.
It proved to be half an inch shorter than the other, and Captain Delorme remarked that his Principal would waive that.
He and the strong man’s companion then chose a spot where the grass was very short and smooth, where there were no stones, twigs or inequalities, and where the light of the setting sun fell sideways upon the combatants—who tip-toed gingerly, and rather ridiculously, in their stockinged feet, to their respective positions. Facing each other, they saluted with their swords and then stood with the right arm pointing downwards and across the body so that the hilt of the sword was against the right thigh and the blade directed to the rear.
“One word, Sir Matthew de Warrenne,” said Sir Seymour as they paused in this attitude. “If my point rests for a second on your hilt _you are a dead man_.”
Sir Matthew laughed in an ugly manner and replied:—
“And what is your knavish design now, Sir Seymour Stukeley?”
“My design _was_ to warn you of an infallible trick of fence, Sir Matthew. It _now_ is to kill you—for the insult, and on behalf of … your own unhappy daughter.”
The other yawned and remarked to his friend:—
“On guard,” cried the person addressed, drawing his sword and striking an attitude.
“Play,” cried Captain Delorme, doing similarly.
Both principals crouched somewhat, held their swords horizontal, with point to the adversary’s breast and hilt drawn back, arm sharply bent—for both, it appeared, had perfected the Art of Arts in Italy.
These niceties escaped the boy in his earlier dreamings of the dream—but the time came when he could name every pass, parry, invitation, and riposte.
The strong man suddenly threw his sword-hand high and towards his left shoulder, keeping his sword horizontal, and exposing the whole of his right side.
Sir Seymour lunged hard for his ribs, beneath the right arm-pit and, as the other’s sword swooped down to catch his, twist it over, and riposte, he feinted, cleared the descending sword, and thrust at the throat. A swift ducking crouch let the sword pass over the strong man’s head, and only a powerful French circular parry saved the life of Sir Seymour Stukeley.