“Ah, treacherous!” cried the young man, as his own blade leaped out.
Foxwell’s second thrust came with surprising swiftness, but was fairly met; and the two swords darted and clashed again and again. Georgiana, with every impulse to rush between the fighters, dared not do so, and was indeed compelled to move rapidly to keep out of their way, watching them with fear and horror. While the noise of their quick feet, their loud breathing and sharp ejaculations, and the clashing steel filled the apartment, there came from some other part of the house a sound of half-drunken singing. This was unheeded, even when it was evidently approaching. Foxwell, perceiving that he had counted too much upon the suddenness and sureness of his attack, and feeling that he was entitled to little mercy if he lost, fought with the impetuosity of desperation. His arm at length grew heavy; and Everell, who on his side used a concentration of faculties worthy of the issue at stake, found opening for a lunge that pinked the other’s forearm, causing him to lower his hand with a cry of chagrin. The next instant the young man struck the weapon from Foxwell’s weakened grasp, sending it flying to the door; which at that moment opened, letting in two men who walked arm in arm and bawled a bacchanalian song.
From their dress and appearance, it was evident that these newcomers were Mr. Thornby’s table companions, doubtless come in search of him. One of them, a short, heavy-set person with a wig awry, was plainly very drunk indeed. The other, a slim, prudent-looking fellow, seemed in good command of his senses. This man, having nearly tripped over the sword, picked it up, and looked with astonishment at those in the room.
“Eh!” he exclaimed. “My Jacobite, by all that’s holy! Here’s providential work! Call your men, Mr. Potkin.”
The stout little man pulled himself together, blinked at Everell, and then bolted from the room. “The justice’s clerk, gone to bring varlets of the law,” thought Everell, who stood regaining his breath. Foxwell withdrew panting to the other side of the table, dropped into Thornby’s chair, and began pulling up his sleeve to examine his wound. Filson put himself on guard with the sword before the doorway, with the manifest intention of disputing Everell’s escape from the room till help should come. Perhaps the courage of wine, the excitement of beholding his quarry at last, or the sight of Everell’s winded condition, emboldened the man: at any rate, he showed resolution, and his manner with the sword was that of some practice in fencing—not a surprising thing at a time when gentlemen’s gentlemen imitated the accomplishments of their masters.