The duellists stood confronting one another, in the position of
"salute," both hands on high grasping their swords at hilt and point,
the blades held horizontally. The second of each was in his place, on
the left hand of his principal, half a pace in advance. But a moment
more all were waiting for the word. The second of the challenger had
the right to give it, and Crittenden was not the man to make delay.
"_Engage_!" he cried out, in a firm clear voice, at the same time
stepping half a pace forward, Duperon doing the same. The movement was
made as a precaution against foul play; sometimes, though not always
intended. For in the excitement of such a moment, or under the
impatience of angry passion, one or other of the principals may close
too quickly--to prevent which is the duty of the seconds.
Quick, at the "engage," both came to "guard" with a collision that
struck sparks from the steel, proving the hot anger of the adversaries.
Had they been cooler, they would have crossed swords quietly. But when,
the instant after, they came to _tierce_, both appeared more collected,
their blades for a while keeping in contact, and gliding around each
other as if they had been a single piece.
For several minutes this cautious play continued, without further
sparks, or only such as appeared to scintillate from the eyes of the
combatants. Then came a counter-thrust, quickly followed by a counter
parry, with no advantage to either.
Long ere this, an observer acquainted with the weapons they were
wielding, could have seen that of the two Kearney was the better
swordsman. In changing from _carte_ to _tierce_, or reversely, the
young Irishman showed himself possessed of the power to keep his arm
straight and do the work with his wrist, whilst the Creole kept bending
his elbow, thus exposing his forearm to the adversary's point. It is a
rare accomplishment among swordsmen, but, when present, insuring almost
certain victory, that is, other circumstances being equal.
In Kearney's case, it perhaps proved the saving of his life; since it
seemed to be the sole object of his antagonist to thrust in upon him,
heedless of his own guard. But the long, straight point, from shoulder
far outstretched, and never for an instant obliquely, foiled all his
attempts.
After a few thrusts, Santander seemed surprised at his fruitless
efforts. Then over his face came a look more like fear. It was the
first time in his duelling experience he had been so baffled, for it was
his first encounter with an adversary who could keep a _straight arm_.
But Florence Kearney had been taught _tierce_ as well as _carte_, and
knew how to practise it. For a time he was prevented from trying it by
the other's impetuous and incessant thrusting, which kept him
continuously at guard, but as the sword-play proceeded, he began to
discover the weak points of his antagonist, and, with a well-directed
thrust, at length sent his blade through the Creole's outstretched arm,
impaling it from wrist to elbow.
An ill-suppressed cry of triumph escaped from the Kentuckian's lips,
while with eyes directed towards the other second, he seemed to ask--
"Are you satisfied?"
Then the question was formally put.
Duperon looked in the face of his principal, though without much show of
interrogating him. It seemed as if he already divined what the answer
would be.
"_A la mort_!" cried the Creole, with a deadly emphasis and bitter
determination in his dark sinister eyes.
"To the death be it!" was the response of the Irishman, not so calmly,
and now for the first time showing anger. Nor strange he should, since
he now knew he had crossed swords with a man determined on taking his
life.
There was a second or two's pause, of which Santander availed himself,
hastily whipping a handkerchief round his wounded arm--a permission not
strictly according to the code, but tacitly granted by his gallant
antagonist.
When the two again closed and came to guard, the seconds were no longer
by their sides. At the words "_a la mort_" they had withdrawn--each to
the rear of his principal--the mode of action in a duel to the death.
Their _role_ henceforth was simply to look on, with no right of
interference, unless either of the principals should attempt foul play.
This, however, could not well occur. By the phrase "_a la mort_" is
conveyed a peculiar meaning, well-known to the Orleans duellist. When
spoken, it is no longer a question of sword-skill, or who draws first
blood; but a challenge giving free licence to kill--whichever can.
In the present affair it was followed by silence more profound and more
intense than ever, while the attention of the spectators, now including
the seconds, seemed to redouble itself.
The only sound heard was a whistling of wings. The fog had drifted
away, and several large birds were seen circling in the air above,
looking down with stretched necks, as if they, too, felt interested in
the spectacle passing underneath. No doubt they did; for they were
vultures, and could see--whether or not they scented it--that blood was
being spilled.
Once more, also, from the tree tops came the mocking laughter of the
eagle; and out of the depths, through long, shadowy arcades, the
mournful hootings of the great white owl--fit music for such fell
strife.
Disregarding these ominous sounds--each seeming a death-warning in
itself--the combatants had once more closed, again and again crossing
sword-blades with a clash that frightened owl, eagle, and vulture, for
an instant causing them to withhold their vocal accompaniment.
Though now on both sides the contest was carried on with increased
anger, there was not much outward sign of it. On neither any rash
sword-play. If they had lost temper they yet had control over their
weapons; and their guards and points, though perhaps more rapidly
exchanged, displayed as much skill as ever.
Again Kearney felt surprised at the repeated thrusts of his antagonist,
which kept him all the time on the defensive, while Santander appeared
equally astonished and discomfited by that far-reaching arm, straight as
a yardstick, with elbow never bent. Could the Creole have but added six
inches to his rapier blade, in less than ten seconds the young Irishman
would have had nearly so much of it passed between his ribs.
Twice its point touched, slightly scratching the skin upon his breast,
and drawing blood.
For quite twenty minutes the sanguinary strife continued without any
marked advantage to either. It was a spectacle somewhat painful to
behold, the combatants themselves being a sight to look upon. Kearney's
shirt of finest white linen showed like a butcher's; his sleeves
encrimsoned; his hands, too, grasping his rapier hilt, the same--not
with his own blood, but that of his adversary, which had run back along
the blade; his face was spotted by the drops dashed over it from the
whirling wands of steel.
Gory, too, was the face of Santander; but gashed as well. Bending
forward to put in a point, the Creole had given his antagonist a chance,
resulting to himself in a punctured cheek, the scar of which would stay
there for life.
It was this brought the combat to an end; or, at all events, to its
concluding stroke. Santander, vain of his personal appearance, on
feeling his cheek laid open, suddenly lost command of himself, and with
a fierce oath rushed at his adversary, regardless of the consequences.
He succeeded in making a thrust, though not the one he intended. For
having aimed at Kearney's heart, missing it, his blade passed through
the buckle of the young Irishman's braces, where in an instant it was
entangled.
Only for half a second; but this was all the skilled swordsman required.
Now, first since the fight began, his elbow was seen to bend. This to
obtain room for a thrust, which was sent, to all appearance, home to his
adversary's heart.
Every one on the ground expected to see Santander fall; for by the force
of the blow and direction Kearney's blade should have passed through his
body, splitting the heart in twain. Instead, the point did not appear
to penetrate even an inch! As it touched, there came a sound like the
chinking of coin in a purse, with simultaneously the snap of a breaking
blade, and the young Irishman was seen standing as in a trance of
astonishment, in his hand but the half of a sword, the other half
gleaming amongst the grass at his feet.
It seemed a mischance, fatal to Florence Kearney, and only the veriest
dastard would have taken advantage of it. But this Santander was, and
once more drawing back, and bringing his blade to _tierce_, he was
rushing on his now defenceless antagonist, when Crittenden called "Foul
play!" at the same time springing forward to prevent it.
His interference, however, would have been too late, and in another
instant the young Irishman would have been stretched lifeless along the
sward, but for a second individual who had watched the foul play--one
who had been suspecting it all along. The sword of Santander seen
flying off, as if struck out of his grasp, and his arm dropping by his
side, with blood pouring from the tips of his fingers, were all nearly
simultaneous incidents, as also the crack of a rifle and a cloud of blue
smoke suddenly spurting up over one of the carriages, and
half-concealing the colossal figure of Cris Rock, still seated on the
box. Out of that cloud came a cry in the enraged voice of the Texan,
with words which made all plain--
"Ye darned Creole cuss! Take that for a treetur an' a cowart! Strip
the skunk! He's got sumthin' steely under his shirt; I heerd the chink
o' it."
Saying which he bounded down from the box, sprang over the water-ditch,
and rushed on towards the spot occupied by the combatants.
In a dozen strides he was in their midst, and before either of the two
seconds, equally astonished, could interfere, he had caught Santander by
the throat, and tore open the breast of his shirt!
Underneath was then seen another shirt, not flannel, nor yet linen or
cotton, but link-and-chain steel!