There was no question of Imogene’s mother then, for the Squire
unhooked two dueling -swords from above the fireplace and placed them,
hilts from him, on the gaming table.
“Choose!” he cried.
“I choose my own sword to kill you with,” replied the parson. “It
was returned to me by a man of Romney Marsh who took it from my father’s
dead hand at Culloden Field. Your own blade may be the longer, for all
I care, but I fight you with my father’s sword. Are you afra id at last?
It is the first time you have met a better man?”
Now, for his father’s sword Syn had a great affection. As a matter
of sentiment he had not only kept it clean and sharp, but he had trained
his hand to use it as his father’s son, and despite his cloth of peace
he had taken it daily to the fencing -school for exercise. Thus it was
that the Squire of Iffley was unpleasantly surprised when, having
selected a weapon to match his opponent’s, he found a blade opposing him
that proved a brain within its temper.
It may have been a full minute that the blades slithered and clanked,
but in that minute the Squire knew that he would have to use his utmost
skill and be aided by fortune in order to break down the other’s guard.
He therefore called a halt by crying out:
“A moment, Mister Parson. If we are fighting to the death and in my
house, I would wish that all things were fair. I see you know something
of fence. Well, as sportsmen let us enjoy the other’s skill before one
of us shall fall. Suppos e we both remove our coats and vests, roll up
our sleeves, drink our last drink, maybe, and fall to it again?”
“As you wish, sir,” replied the parson, and then to Imogene, “We
shall not keep your dear mother long in suspense. In a few minutes she
will be avenged.”
Meanwhile Cobtree had taken advantage of the break to better the
dueling space. He pulled aside the big gaming-table, and placed the
movable candelabras facing one another in the centre of the room. This,
with the help of the hanging chandeliers, concentrated the light into
the centre of the oak floor. He then rolled aside the heavy rugs, and
was about to move the wine-table when the Squire interrupted.
“We will drink before we fight,” he said. “Although there is nothing
but hate between us, I will at least offer you that much hospitality. I
would see no one bound for hell or heaven lacking a drink.”
“For us, sir, no,” replied Syn, who had already stripped himself of
coat and vest and clerical cravat, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Mr.
Cobtree and myself are only in the habit of drinking with gentlemen.
From your appearance you have drunk already more than is good for you
safety, and if you will permit me to preach one more to your advantage,
I should counsel you to abstain from more, since you will need all your
wits and skill to hold your own against my death -thrusts. Swill if you
will, swine, and then join blades again. Tony, will you oblige me by
moving that pistol-case to the far end of the room behind my back?”
“You think I would take an ill advantage of you?” snarled the Squire.
“Think?” re-echoed Doctor Syn. “I know. I take no foolish chances
with a liar and a cheat. Come, sir, drink if you must, and let us be
done with it once and for all.”
- 40 -
Fooli shly the Squire drank straight from the bottle’s neck till it
was done.
Dr. Syn watched him and said aloud, “You fool! that last drink has
delivered you into my hands. But do me the grace to own I warned you.
Come sir. Defend yourself as best as you can.”
This time the Squire selected another blade of longer reach, to which
Cobtree objected, but Doctor Syn waved him aside and touched blades in
warning.
Furiously the Squire attacked, and as the minutes sped to the ring of
steel his fury increased, because he found in the young parson a
swordsman the like of which he had never met before. Their methods were
different, for the Squire fought with a dashing ferocity, showing a
lithe agility remarkable in a man of such heavy bulk. But the parson
met each fiery attack with a rock-like defense, and although retreating
slowly before the licking steel, he seemed to do so with cool
deliberation. Right down the room, the Squire like a fierce whirlwind
drove him, till at last the parson felt the paneling touch his back.
With a hideous misgiving for this friend’s safety, Cobtree cried out,
“Attack!”
It was then that Syn smiled and shook his head, while the Squire
doubled the speed of his attack, determined to keep his opponent pinned
against the wall until he could break through his defense. The Squire
had now the advantage of the lights behind him, and this he meant to
keep until he could deliver the death-thrust. But he same thought was in
the mind of Doctor Syn, and despite the rapidity of the licking thrusts,
his voice rose above the continual clash and slithers of the steel.
Calmly he said, “I think we will get back into the light again.”
With the same deliberation that he had used in his retreat, He now as
calmly advanced, slowly but surely, foot by foot.
To Cobtree’s practiced eye it now seemed as though the Squire was
rebounding from the heavy impact of his own attacks, for though the
parson steadily advanced with an uncanny assurance, he still fought only
on defense, checking each lightning lunge with his impregnable barrier
of steel.
The Squire’s livid face began to change from red rage to an almost
childlike bewilderment. In his vast experience of fighting he had never
met a man like this with no attack. If only he could snatch a rest in
his own defense, and let the other fight, he felt that he would sooner
or later get the opening he needed. Instead of which the remorseless
steel against him continued to advance with an unbreakable defense.
Already they were past the lights, to Doctor Syn’s advantage, and the
Squire’s breathing came in short gasps. Still Syn advanced, pressing
his defense upon the elder man. The fumes of wine which had helped the
Squire in his first dashes now began to hinder him. His eyes bleared
and troubled him as tears of exhausted rage collected in the rims and
gave a misty view. Syn’s coolness and courage were demoralizing. Apart
from that implacable sword advancing so remorselessly, there was that in
the parson’s eye which drove him back.
“I rather think this is your last fight, sir,” said Syn quietly.
How could the fellow fight and talk so calmly? wondered the Squire.
The parson’s words had pierced his cowardly heart, for he felt a cold
sweat of fear flowing from it to his veins. He knew that his strength
was snapping beneath the strain. He thought of his loaded pistols in the
case. They were far down the room where Cobtree had placed them. In an
endeavor to reach them he tried to turn and so reverse positions. This
Syn resisted, for he did not mea n to lose the advantage of the light.
Also he had a wish to drive his
- 41 -
opponent’s back against the paneling, as his had been. So doggedly, he
prevented the Squire from turning, and doggedly he drove him farther up
the room.
The Squire’s condition was now deplorable. Sweat poured from his
forehead, and his eyes were full of tears, so that he had to jerk his
head sharply to be rid of them. And so, baffled and weary, he was driven
back. At last he touched the paneling, and knowing he was beate n, cried