IN THE DEPTH OF THE ROCK
She threw one down at Philippa’s feet. But the other made no suggestion
of taking it up.
“What nonsense! What madness!” she exclaimed indignantly. “Please show
me the way and let me go. I have had enough of this place.”
“Not till I please,” Royda flung back. “You shall never go, if I can
help it, for I mean to try to kill you. I tell you,” she went on, in
an access of fury provoked by Philippa’s calmness, “you shall fight.
If men can, why not we? I have no skill in fence, so we may be equal
there, unless you have, and even then I am content. No one will
interrupt us here. I am not one of your cold blood. You have crossed my
love, ruined my life, and must take the consequences.”
“If,” Philippa returned, with a touch of haughtiness, “as you say, I am
cold-blooded, you will understand my refusing anything so ridiculous
as a duel. And, apart from its absurdity, I have no feeling against you
or wish to hurt you.”
“So you take my blow and will not resent it, coward that you are.”
“I can make allowances for your excitement,” Philippa replied calmly,
“and the error into which it has led you concerning my presence here.”
“Thank you,” Royda retorted scornfully. “You are very kind, so kind
that your kindness is an insult. You shall fight me, Philippa Harlberg.”
“I will not.”
“But you shall. Or at least I will fight you, and if you do not choose
to defend yourself----”
Philippa looked at the girl standing before her in the white heat
of passion, impatiently bending the light rapier in her hands. The
situation was absurd and yet serious. Philippa had quite her sex’s
share of courage when it came to the point of action, but she felt
utterly nonplussed by the extraordinary turn the night’s events
had taken. She was practically a prisoner, alone with a girl whose
naturally excitable nature was inflamed almost to madness against her.
“A duel is ridiculous, monstrous,” she protested. “I am ready to give
you any other satisfaction.”
“What satisfaction?” Royda broke in passionately. “When two men love
the same woman they fight. When two women love the same man----”
“But we do not,” Philippa interrupted. “I hate him.”
Royda gave an incredulous laugh. “You hate Aubray Zarka? Well, then one
of us loves him and he loves the other. That is enough.”
“Because he won’t care for you I am to fight you?”
“Yes,” Royda answered savagely between her teeth, as though slung by
the taunt, pushing with the point of her sword the other on the floor
towards Philippa.
“I absolutely refuse.”
“Then you are a coward. As cowardly as you are treacherous.”
“At least I am not a romantic fool.”
“As I am?”
Philippa gave a shrug and turned away, weary of the scene. Instantly
she heard a quick movement behind her and felt across her shoulders the
sharp sting of a blow. Turning she found Royda close behind her with
rapier uplifted in the act of striking her again. Her first impulse was
to rush at her assailant and try to disarm her, but Royda, anticipating
this, sprang back a pace and levelled the point of her weapon at her
breast.
“Coward! You shall fight me, or I will kill you! Take up that sword and
defend yourself.”
“I am no coward,” Philippa retorted. “You say you have no knowledge
of fence. I have. I used to practice it in town. A contest between us
would not be equal, and I have no desire--”
“I care nothing for that,” Royda broke in impatiently. “Nor for your
advantage in being taller and having a longer reach. I mean to fight
you. At least I cannot come off worse than I stand now, and it will be
some sort of satisfaction. Now will you take that sword? You shall!”
For Philippa had made an impatient gesture. “The world has not room for
us both.”
“I tell you again it is monstrous,” Philippa insisted, regaining her
composure. “I have no wish to touch you. How have you harmed me?”
Royda was calmer now, but her determination was none the less keen
and unshakable. “That is nothing in affairs of honour,” she returned
impatiently. “There is seldom grievance on both sides. But to prick
that bubble of excuse--have I not given you two blows? Refuse to
fight me and I will utterly ruin and disgrace you. I will proclaim
Aubray Zarka as your lover; I can easily prove your secret visit here
to-night, and the world shall know it. You have come here as a thief
and must take the consequences. You cannot escape except to absolute
shame. I will talk no more. I hate you. If you do not take up that
sword I swear I will run you through the heart.”
The girl was in earnest, and Philippa could but realize the helpless
position she was in. Escape was impossible. At night in that strange
place, deep in the centre of the rock, from which she knew no way of
escape, under the very roof of her dreaded lover, Zarka, there was
nothing to do but to face her enemy. Expostulation was clearly useless
before the fury of the jealous girl, and Philippa felt that she must
act. She stooped and took up the rapier, and as she did so Royda drew a
great breath of satisfaction.
“It is good!” she said between her teeth, and, leaning her own weapon
against the nearest stand of armour, proceeded to divest herself of the
upper portion of her dress.
“You had better do the same,” she observed quietly and coldly. “This
will not be child’s play.”
Philippa was wearing a hooded cloak over her dress. Mechanically she
unfastened and laid it aside. Shrinking from the absurd wrong and
wickedness of the act they were about to commit, yet recognizing that
she must make this desperate stroke as her only chance of escape, she
felt no trace of fear, and her hope was that she might succeed in
quickly disarming her adversary and so bring the mad affair to an end
almost as soon as it should begin. Still she lingered, as one naturally
delays over the preparation for a distasteful act.
Royda had stood ready for many seconds before Philippa took her sword
and faced her for that most extraordinary encounter. It was a strange
sight. The great rock-hewn room, the array of still, mail-clad figures,
standing like ghostly spectators of a more singular combat than the
wearers of the armour in life had ever witnessed, the line stretching
away into the obscurity of the farther end of the room, while the half
light was reflected by the burnished plates of the nearest figures
on to the two women, warm and panting with life and excitement,
confronting each other in what might be deadly combat. Great was the
contrast between them. Royda d’Ivady was dark complexioned, not much
above the middle height, but exquisitely formed, the full contour of
her arms and bust and the rich-blooded, olive-hued skin being shown
to perfection now she had removed her bodice; her face set with
determination and her pose full of watchful energy. Philippa, a good
head taller, long-limbed, her skin dazzlingly white against the sombre
surroundings, with magnificent arms and shoulders--one showing a great
livid wale where the rapier had whipped her--her figure perfect in
its natural lines and mouldings, crowned by her royally set head and
wealth of light brown hair glinting as the light fell on it. So she
stood, a superb specimen of womanhood, with an expression of quiet
courage on her face, handling her rapier with natural grace: it was
as though a lion were opposed to a leopard; both were in earnest, yet
perhaps hardly conscious that the result of this unwitnessed duel might
mean murder.
In a moment their light rapiers had touched, and at the contact all
Royda’s fury, which had lately been restrained, seemed to rush forth
at her very sword’s point. It was clear at the first assault that both
girls had some general idea of thrust and parry, although neither might
have any practical skill in fence. After the first few passes both
fenced warily as though the very touch of the steel had brought home to
them the seriousness of their encounter.
Royda pressed Philippa, whose part was purely defensive, and who
parried the vicious lunges as well as she could, thanking her stars
for the few casual lessons which had taught her something of the art.
Availing herself of her superior height, she tried several times to
beat down the other’s guard and disarm her, but failed through Royda’s
alertness and her own want of precise knowledge as to how the stroke
should be accomplished. Her natural coolness, however, stood her in a
good stead; Royda was hot-headed, quivering with passion, and lunged
so wildly that Philippa found no difficulty, by keeping her head, in
putting aside the assailing point. So she continued on the defensive,
hoping that Royda would soon tire; indeed, she felt confident of
wearing her down if only she could keep untouched, for she was strong,
and to her the slender sword was little heavier to wield than a riding
whip. So they fought on; Royda, pressing forward, vindictive, panting
with exertion and excitement; Philippa calm, watchful, keeping her
adversary at bay by sheer cool-headedness and strength of wrist,
retreating at each more furious thrust, but never taking advantage of
an opening for attack when she saw one. Not a word was spoken: they
moved silently over the smooth floor; the only sound that broke the
silence of that great vault-like room being the subdued clash of the
little rapiers and the panting of the combatants. It was unscientific
sword-play, but the adversaries were well matched, and the contest none
the less exciting and in deadly earnest. Royda’s point had drawn blood
more than once. There was a deep graze on Philippa’s left shoulder,
where she had let a lunge pass too near, and her sword arm was bleeding
slightly. But neither of these trivial wounds was deep enough to be
felt through the excitement of the duel and Philippa continued to take
the onslaught as coolly as when the fight began.
She had been gradually obliged to give ground till she at length found
herself driven to the wall, where there was nothing for it but to
attack or turn, the latter a perilous manœuvre, since she would have to
fight her way round at close quarters. Royda, perceiving her intention,
made several quick passes, trying to frustrate it by pinning her in a
corner. She was, however, beginning to tire, and so Philippa, putting
forth all her strength, was able to beat down her point, and by a
quick movement slip round. But as she did so her foot caught in the
beading of the raised platform on which the armoured effigies stood:
she recovered herself, but in the act of letting go her long skirt
it impeded her spring and she stumbled. Royda, quick as lightning,
seized the opportunity, and lunging swiftly pierced the side of her
neck. Stung by the pain Philippa sprang backwards, thereby disengaging
herself from the rapier’s point. Royda, seeing the blood trickling over
her enemy’s bosom, and probably thinking the wound she had inflicted
worse than it really was, stood for a moment half paralyzed with her
guard lowered. Philippa, excited and confused by the wound, struck
down Royda’s sword sharply and lunged. Royda could not recover in time
to parry the thrust, and the point passed through the fleshy part of
her sword arm. She gave a cry, dropped her rapier, and staggered back.
Philippa, springing forward, caught her in her arms as she fell, and
the sword, pulled by its own weight from the wound, dropped ringing to
the floor.