A DUEL ON THE SANDS.
My legs and arms were stiff from long sitting, and with the cold. When I
was out on the sands, away from Lucille, I ran up and down the beach to
start my blood. I beat my arms about my body to limber them, and rubbed
my hands and wrists. Then when I was glowing from the exercise, I dashed
the sea water over my face and neck until I tingled all over. On I
hurried now to the place of meeting. I could see Sir George walking
slowly along the beach, and I marked that Simon was left behind, near to
where they had kindled their watch-fire the night before. As I went
along I looked out on the sea, which had turned to a rosy golden color
under the rays of the sun. The waves glistened and sparkled before they
broke in foam and bubbles on the shelving beach, hissing as they rushed
up the incline, and then, chasing each other back into the ocean again,
they dragged with them bits of sea weed, little stones and tiny pieces
of tinted shells. I walked just on the edge of the wet sand, for it was
easier going there, being firm from the beating of the waves, and I saw
that Sir George coming toward me did likewise.
Now I had fought many duels, but never such a deliberately planned one
as this was. Usually it was when my blood and that of my companion was
hot. It was a blow, a curse, a rush to a secluded spot where we could
indulge in a bit of sword play and not be interrupted, and in a little
while a body with a sword thrust, lying on the sward. The slayer being
hurried off to a wine house with his friends. At most times, too, there
had been seconds, and a few onlookers, though, when occasion forbade
them, we made shift to do without.
There was the time I had met de Gloise, back of the chapel that stands
on the left of the road, as you leave the northern road from Paris. We
had no attendants then, but were able to accomplish some pretty sword
strokes. He gave me a thrust in the shoulder, while, by some chance, my
weapon went into his throat, and he never sang any more of those funny
French songs.
And there was Gandes, who was accounted an excellent blade. He and I had
it out, early one morning. ’Twas about whether he or I could drink the
most red wine, if I recall the cause of the quarrel, for I was rather
wild those days.
Neither of us was sober enough to do more than a slouchy bit of work
with the weapons, for we had spent the night together at the Owl and
Peacock, before we quarreled, as to which was the wiser bird of the
twain painted above the inn door. We went out into the yard, where only
the stable boys were rubbing their sleepy eyes, and crossed swords. Poor
Gandes. I thrust him through the body, though, sober, I would not have
harmed him so much, as he was my best friend. He gave me a hasty cut in
the side which made me stiff for many a day.
Then there was the time when I trod on a stranger’s toes, in Munich, he
being, at the time, about to call on a lady. He called me a clumsy lout,
and I replied with hot words. So we had it out there in the moonlight,
behind a church. He was a most delightful man with a sword, and it was a
real honor to engage him, for he had several passes that quite puzzled
me for a time. But I managed to reach under his guard, and give him a
wound in the arm pit, which must have prevented him from holding a blade
for some time. On his side, he came near to catching me unawares, and,
the result was a lunge, that, had it been six inches lower, must have
ended my fighting days. As it was, I bear the scar on my left cheek yet.
Thus I mused as I walked along to meet Sir George. I knew this would be
no boys’ affair, and I resolved to attempt none of those niceties of the
fence, of which I am capable. For I was not in the mind to take chances
on my life now, since it had become precious to me from yester eve, when
I found my love again. I would let slip no chance, though, to kill my
foe, as only his death could wipe out the insult to Lucille.
We had now come so near that we could greet each other. I saluted with
my sword, and Sir George returned the compliment gravely. The next
instant we were both looking over the ground, whereon we were to engage.
The place we had selected the night before, was on a sort of sandy
knoll, and the height of it above the surrounding beach prevented the
waves from washing up on it, save when the tide was full. The ground
there seemed to be dry and rather shifting, offering no secure
foot-hold.
“It is a little better in this direction,” said Sir George, indicating a
shallow hollow place in the sand behind him.
I agreed with him, for there the waters of the tides had washed up on
the sand, packing it firmly down.
This place, however, lay a little farther toward the sea, and made it
necessary for us, if we would fight there, to stand, at times, with our
ankles in the wet. It seemed to be the nearest place that suited, and
was, in truth, a choice spot for a bit of sword play.
We threw off our upper garments. Our weapons were out of the scabbards
as one, and we advanced until we stood facing each other. Sir George
turned his gaze for an instant toward the rising sun on his left. Then
he looked me in the eyes.
“Guard,” he said, quickly.
“On guard,” said I.
Our swords crossed a second later, and the battle between us was on.
For the first time I noticed how pale Sir George was. There were dark
rings under his eyes, and his face bore marks of his passion and his
recent sufferings, physical and mental. But it was no time for such
observations as these. His steel clicked viciously on mine, and I knew,
by the pressure and the way he lunged, that he was trying to make short
work of it.
The clash of our blades, both good ones, mingled with the roar of the
surf. It was thrust and parry, parry and thrust, the keen pointed
weapons gliding along their lengths like serpents. We circled about one
another, each watching, with jealous eyes, for a false move, a misstep.
Three times did he thrust at my heart, thinking to catch me off guard,
but, each time, my blade was there before his, and the sword slipped off
with a hiss as of hot iron.
I tried many a stroke and thrust that I had found of service heretofore,
but ever did I find his wrist ready, and he turned aside my point once
when I could have sworn that I would have ended it. He laughed at me.
He thrust at my throat, and, when I would have parried it, he shifted
his point, on a sudden, toward my heart. It was an old trick, and I knew
how to meet it. When I had turned his blade away by a simple shift of my
weapon, I laughed back at him, and responded with so quick a lunge that
I pricked him in the shoulder, thus getting the honor of first blood.
And I laughed again, as he frowned.
But mortal arms and wrists could not stand the strain much longer, and
we were both panting, while the sweat stood in beads on our brows.
Through it all our eyes never for an instant left each other’s gaze.
Again and again I thrust, until I had his wrist weary turning them
aside. Ever I sought to reach one spot, not that I hoped to wound him
there, but I had a trick I wished to work. His lips opened, that he
might breathe more freely, and I saw his chin quiver, while a drop of
sweat, that had come out on his forehead, rolled down on his cheek. I
knew the tide was on the point of turning now, and the struggle that had
been an even one, was a jot in my favor. I had forced him to the
defensive.
He saw the gleam of triumph in my eye, and, as if to assure me and
himself that he was as fresh as ever, he smiled and tossed back his
head.
We had circled about each other so often, neither giving a step, that
there was a little ridge of sand made by our feet, enclosing a spot that
bore no mark. Slowly, so slowly that to an onlooker it could not have
been said when it happened, Sir George began to step back. It was but a
slight shifting of the feet, a settling of the body on the right leg
that did it, until, when another minute or two had passed he was without
the ring, and I stood in the centre.
The one sweat drop had been followed by others, and he was breathing
with an effort. His face became paler, nor was his sword as quick to
respond to the parry. I pressed him hard, with the result that I touched
him in the arm twice. I felt, rather than saw, that I had him now at an
advantage.
Ha! Another inch and I would have ended it then. But I had not given him
credit for the knowledge of that trick. He met my lunge, and turned it
off to such account that he nipped me in the neck; only a slight wound,
however. The sight of my blood seemed to enrage him, for he came at me
fiercely, and I was forced for a moment to adopt a defense.
Then, slowly but surely, I made him give ground again. I could see the
fear and dread come into his eyes, as I had seen it in other eyes
before.
“How long is it to last?” he muttered, foolishly using his breath in
words. Yet, in his agony, and it was agony when he saw death in front of
him, he smiled. And it seemed like the same smile I had seen, when he
stood urging on the men, as I was beneath the great press.
I did not answer, but pushed my sword point more and more near to his
heart. Twice I tried to reach over his guard, but each time he had been
too quick for me, and my thrusts went high in the air. As I recovered my
balance a curious thing happened.
A wave, bigger than any that had come before, broke upon the beach and
rushed toward us in a mass of foam and water. In an instant we were
lunging at one another knee deep in the sea. As the water flowed down
the incline again it swept the sand from beneath our feet, and we had
hard work to stand upright. But even that did not stop him from making a
fierce thrust at my throat so that I had to be on the alert to force his
point away.
The next instant came a woman’s scream. We both turned, forgetting for
the time that our very lives depended on the watch we kept of the other.
Lucille was on the beach, running toward us!
My heart gave a throb, and I half turned myself about. The next moment I
realized my folly, and was facing my enemy again. But that one moment
was almost too long.
I had without thinking lowered the point of my weapon and given Sir
George the very opening he wanted.
Like a snake his steel slipped half its length over mine, and the point
was toward my heart. For the life of me I could not help the gasp that
my breath gave. In my desperation I tried a parry that de Sceaul had
once taught me. I dared not hope it would be effective, for I was too
late with it.
His sword drew sparks from mine as it rasped along the length; the point
was before my eyes.
With a last fearful lunge toward him I managed to force his weapon up,
with my own pointing heavenward, and only just in time, for the point
tore a furrow through the skin of my forehead.
And then there was a sudden snap, and a sound of ringing steel. I saw in
the hand of Sir George only the hilt of his sword. In his eyes was a
look of wonder, and his head was thrown back, in the effort to see what
had become of his blade.
Next, ere either of us had time to move, the broken sword, whole from
the point to where it joined the hilt, and which had been tossed high in
the air by the force of my upward parry, and the spring of the broken
steel, came down like an Indian arrow, point first.
And it struck him in the throat, just where there is the hollow,
scooped-out place, in the breast bone. It went in nigh a foot, and stuck
up, a fearful thing to behold, while, for half the length that protruded
the spurting blood dyed it red.
Sir George stood for an instant without a movement. Then he began
swaying and struggling not to fall, as does a tree, part cut through. He
tried to speak, through the blood that rushed to his lips. Then he
staggered, and came down on his knees.
He was close to death, and, strange chance, not so much by my hand as by
his own. For a second I stood and looked at him, while he endeavored to
regain his feet, but he only pitched forward, and lay prone upon the
sand, crimson with his blood.
At the same moment a wave came up, covering him from sight, and nearly
washing me from where I was. Lucille, with a cry of horror at what she
had seen, ran toward us. As the water receded it undermined the sand
where I stood, so that I was hard put to retain my place. Then I saw
that Sir George was like to be carried out to sea. He dug his hands
frantically into the yielding beach, but his nails only tore deep
furrows in the earth. His eyes sought mine.
I would not let a dog thus die. So I leaped out after him, catching him
about the waist, and, after a struggle against the action of the
undertow, that seemed bound to get us both, I managed to half drag, half
carry him up the slope, out of reach of the water.
Then, as I stooped over, and drew the sword blade from his throat, to
have a rush of blood follow, I looked up, and there stood Lucille.
“Are you wounded, Edward?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“Only a scratch,” I replied.
“And--and--Sir George?” she faltered.
“’Tis a grievous hurt,” I said, and with that Sir George, whose eyes had
been closed, since I carried him out of the water, opened them.
“You have won,” he said, quietly, and he turned so that he might not
look at either Lucille or me.
“Oh, Edward, Edward,” sobbed Lucille. Then I led her away.
Simon, who had been absent all this time, came racing up the sandy
stretch now. He cast himself down beside the body of his master,
caressing him, and kissing his cold face.
“Water,” gasped Sir George.
Before Simon could rise I ran to the spring near the rock and hurried
back with my cap full of the liquid. As I neared the place where the
dying man lay, I saw something white, like a piece of parchment, in
Simon’s hand, and the sailor hurriedly thrust it into his pocket.
Sir George drank eagerly, and Simon and I bathed his face.
The sun was fully up now, flooding us all in the golden light. The tide
came farther on the sands, the gulls flitted out over the waves, and, in
the woods back of us the birds were singing. It hardly seemed as if a
few minutes ago that two men were battling there for each other’s lives,
and that now one was dying.
I walked slowly away, as I thought Sir George might not like me near him
in his last moments. But he raised his hand, and beckoned to me to
approach. When I had leaned over him, for he could only whisper, I heard
him say, between his gasps:
“Well--I have lost--but the stake--the stake was worth playing for. Had
I my life to live over again, the chance to--to once more live and
love--and--fight, I would not change one jot. I had deep laid plans, yet
they failed. You were in my path, and, when I thought I had made an end
for you--you came back to torment me, to rob me of my love.”
“Not to rob you,” I protested. “It was a fair fight, and she had a right
to choose. ’Twas you who sought to rob me.”
“Well, it is all over now,” he rejoined. “We have been good foes, and
you were a brave man. I honor you for it.”
“Nay, as for the honor of the sword, ’tis yours as much as mine,” I
said. “Better blade have I never met, and I have crossed with many.”
He smiled, a little smile of contempt. A man who is done with this world
can afford to laugh at the power of steel.
“Let it pass,” he continued, speaking with greater ease now that he was
near the end. “Let it pass. And now seeing that I have not much longer
in the land, truly a most pleasant land, in spite of all that is said
against it, dare I make bold to ask a favor?”
“I will serve you, if I may,” I answered.
“Oh, it is only a small matter,” he rejoined. “’Tis this. When I am
laid--laid away, let Simon accompany you to Elizabeth town. He has a
mission for me there that I will not be able to accomplish.
“Oh, my God!” he exclaimed suddenly, and his face told of the suffering
he felt.
I started to raise him up, that he might rest more easily.
“It is nothing,” he said. “Dying is a little harder than I thought,” and
he actually smiled at me.
“Might I speak to--to her?” he asked, as a child would plead.
I started after Lucille, and found her weeping behind the knoll where we
had appointed to fight.
“Come,” was all I said.
She followed me without a word, and, when we neared the place where Sir
George was dying, I would have hung back, letting her go to him alone.
However, he motioned me to approach with her, and so it was that we
stood, Lucille and Simon and I, at his side.
“Madame,” he said, “will you forgive me for all I have done? For the
trick I played on you?”
“Yes, my lord,” answered Lucille. “Though it was a grievous wrong, yet,
since you are near to death I do forgive you, freely and fully.”
“I thank you,” he said, simply.
“And you, sir?” looking at me.
“I, too, can afford to forgive and forget,” I replied, as I took
Lucille’s hand.
“It is enough,” were his next words. Then a tremor seemed to pass over
him. I turned Lucille away that she might not see the end.
“Good bye--Lucille,” whispered, rather than spoke, Sir George.
“Good bye, my lord,” came falteringly from Lucille’s lips, and she burst
into tears, with her head on my shoulder. I led her away.
When I turned to look at him I saw that the end was come. He had turned
over on his face, and his head was resting on his folded arms, while a
choking sob shook his body. He was weeping in death, this man who had
dared so much for love, and lost.
Simon, who had knelt down by his master, leaned over him. He appeared to
be listening. Then he arose, raised his hands to heaven and gave a great
cry.
Thus died Sir George Keith, a brave man, a bold man, and--well, he is
dead. May he rest in peace.
And we covered him up with the sand, Simon and I; with the sand whereon
he had fought his last fight.
I was anxious, now, to be away from the place, and to get Lucille to
some shelter. We lighted a fire, and roasted some of the bacon, making a
scanty meal, and, ere the sun was mid-day high, we were ready to start.
“Come,” I said, cheerfully, “our path lies before us, and if we hasten
we may reach Elizabeth town by night.”
“Any place away from this,” sighed Lucille. “I shall have unpleasant
memories of it for many a day.”
We managed to scramble to the top of the cliff, and found the place
where Kit was tethered. The mare was most glad to see me, and whinnied
with delight, as I rubbed her nose. My saddle made a poor shift for
Lucille, but I padded it with my coat, making the best seat I could.
Then, with a last look at the beach, whereon so much had passed, I
called to Kit, Simon and I stepped out, and we laid our course to the
southwest.
The way was rough and soon we had left the wood and were traveling over
a marsh that required us to be careful where we stepped. Our progress
was slow, but I hoped, if we could not reach Elizabeth, that we could
get to a farm house, where we might spend the night. Simon walked on
ahead, while I kept at Lucille’s side. We found much to talk of, for
love furnishes many topics.
The sun went lower in the west, yet we had not come upon sight of a
dwelling. It was lonesome and dreary enough, and Lucille looked at me
once or twice, with fear in her eyes.
“We will soon be there,” I said, though I did not believe so, for I
feared we had mistaken the road.
As it grew dusk we came to the edge of the marsh and entered the woods
again. Still there was no sign of house or hut. I gave up then,
convinced that we were off the trail, and must spend another night in
the open. It was not a pleasant prospect, but there was no help for it.
There was a sound in the underbrush, and a trapper came out. I was right
glad to see him. After a little conversation I asked him the way to
Elizabeth town, and he told me that we had come past it, that it was
nearly a day’s journey to the northwest. I had circled around it in my
wandering, and Sir George had sailed past it. Truly it was strange that
we should have ever met.
“Well,” I said as happily as I could, when the trapper had crashed away,
“we must do the best we can. It is only one day lost.”
I found a place where four trees grew together almost in the form of a
square. Simon and I cut down cedar boughs, and made a rude roof between
the trunks. Then we enclosed the sides, spread more branches and leaves
on the ground, and had a forest bower, full of many cracks and chinks,
but some shelter from the wind and dew.
Simon lighted a fire with my tinder box, and we cooked almost our last
piece of bacon. We finished the meal in silence. I wrapped Lucille in my
coat when she went inside the shelter we had made. She called a
good-night to both of us.
Then Simon and I sat down beside the glowing embers for another night
watch. We did not speak. The woods were deeply quiet, save for the hoot
of an owl or the howl of a wolf.