After a short rest, Moore and I faced each other.
"Let us cut the parades," I said--and Bernheim gave the word to engage.
Without conceit I can say that I am more than moderately skillful with
the sword. It is, possibly, the one hobby of my life. My father and
grandfather before me were strong fencers, and one of my earliest
recollections is being given a toy foil and put through the parades.
There is a saying that "a swordsman is born not made," and it is a true
one. But, unless there is hard study and training from childhood, the
birth gift is wasted and there is only a made-fencer in the end. My
good sire had appreciated this fact, and not only gave me the best
instructors obtainable in America, but, in my second year's vacation
from "The Point," he took me to Paris and kept me hard at work under
the best French _maïtres_. From that time on, I had practiced
assiduously, and spending all my leaves in Europe and fencing in all
the best schools of the Continent.
Our blades had little more than crossed when I knew that it would take
all my skill to hold my own, even for a short time. Moore was, far and
away, the best fencer I had ever encountered; and I thought I had faced
about all the famous ones of first force. His agility was amazing; his
wrist like steel; his anticipation masterly. For every time I touched
him, he touched me twice; though none, on either side, would have been
more than a scratch. Then, in the midst of a fierce rally, I forced a
pretty opening and I thrust. No guard seemed possible--it was a sure
_coeur_. The next instant, there came a wrench, that almost tore off
my fingers, and my foil flew across the room. Moore had led me into
the final position of Lotzen's attack, and had disarmed me exactly as
he had the Duke.