“A subterfuge – a lie!” shouted the youth, stung to madness by the implied taunt of his inferiority. “Do your best and worst. Draw, sirrah, or I’ll run you through. Draw, I say!”
“Oh, don’t be in such a hurry. If I must I must, and, to oblige you, will, though it dislikes me to do murder – all the more that you’ve a spark of spirit. But – ”
“Do it if you can,” interrupted the Cavalier, unheeding the compliment. “I’ve no fear of your murdering me. Maybe the boot will be on the other leg.”
Again that strange expression came over the face of the older man, half-admiration, half-compassion, with a scarce discernible element of anger in it. Even yet he appeared reluctant to draw his sword, and only did so when the opprobrious epithet Lâche– for the Cavaliers spoke a smattering of French – was flung into his teeth by his now furious antagonist. At this, unsheathing, he called out, —
“Your blood be on your own head. To guard!”
“For God and the King!” cried the challenger, as he tightened grasp on hilt and rein, setting himself firmly in the saddle.
“For God and the People!” followed the response antagonistic.
A prick of the spur by both, a bound forward, and their blades crossed with a clash, their horses shoulder to shoulder. But on the instant of engaging, that of the Cavalier, frayed by the clink of the steel and its flash in the dazzling sunlight, reared up, pivoting round to the right. This brought his rider left side to his antagonist, giving the latter an advantage: and so decided, it seemed as though he could bring the affair to an end at the moment of commencement. For his own better-trained steed had stood ground, and wanted only another touch of the spur to carry him close enough for commanding the bridle arm of his adversary, and all under it, when with a lunge he might thrust him through. Surely he could have done this! Yet neither spur nor sword were so exerted. Instead, he sat quietly in his saddle, as if waiting for his adversary to recover himself! Which the latter soon did, wheeling short round, and again furiously engaging; by a second misconception, unaware of the mercy shown him. This time as they came to the “engage” the Cavalier’s horse behaved better, standing ground till several thrusts and parades were exchanged between them. Clearly the silk-clad youth was no novice at fencing, but as clearly the other was a master of it, and equally accomplished as a horseman; his horse, too, so disciplined as to give him little bother with the bridle. A spectator, if a connoisseur in the art d’escrime, could have told how the combat would end – must end – unless some accident favoured the younger combatant. As it was, even the Fates seemed against him, his horse again rearing en pirouette, and to the wrong side, placing him once more at the mercy of his antagonist. And again the latter scorned, or declined, taking advantage of it!
When the angry youth for the third time confronted him, it was with less fury in his look, and a lowered confidence in his skill. For now he not only knew his own inferiority as a swordsman, but was troubled with an indistinct perception of the other’s generosity. Not clear enough, however, to restrain him from another trial; and their swords came together in a third crossing.
This time the play was short, almost as at the first. Having engaged the Cavalier’s blade in carte, and bound it, the self-proclaimed Republican with a quick flanconnade plunged the point of his own straight for his adversary’s wrist. Like the protruded tongue of a serpent, it went glistening into the white gauntlet, which instantly showed a spot of red, with blood spurting out; while the rapier of the Cavalier, struck from his grasp, flew off, and fell with a ring upon the road.
Chapter Two
Foes Become Friends
The young Cavalier was now altogether at the mercy of his older, and as proved, abler antagonist; knew the latter could take his life, and had the right, as well as good reason, from the great provocation given him in that shower of insulting epithets – the latest of them “Lâche!” For all, he quailed not, neither made attempt to elude the next thrust of the victorious sword. Instead, stood his ground, crying out, —
“You have conquered! You can kill me!”
“Kill you?” rejoined the victor, with the same light laugh as before. “That’s just what I’ve been endeavouring not to do. But it has cost me an effort – all my skill. Had you been an ordinary swordsman I’d have disarmed you at the first pass after engaging. I’ve done it with others, half a dozen or more. With you, ’twas just as much as I was able, without absolutely taking your life – a thing far from my thoughts, and as far from my wishes. And now that all’s over, and we’ve neither of us murdered the other, am I to say ‘Surrender’?”
He still spoke laughingly, but without the slightest tone of satire, or show of exultation.
“You can command it,” promptly responded the vanquished youth, now doubly vanquished. “I cry ‘Quarter’ – crave it, if you like.”
It was no fear of death made him thus humbly submit, but a sudden revulsion, an outburst of gratitude, to a conqueror alike merciful and generous.
Ere this their attendants had got upon the ground, seeming undecided whether to pitch in with their masters, or cross swords on their own account. Both had drawn them, and waited but word or sign, scowling savagely at each other. Had it come to blows between the men, the result, in all probability, would have been as with their masters; the Cavalier’s lightweight varlet looking anything but a match for the stout-bodied, veteranlike individual who was henchman to his antagonist. As it was, they had not resolved themselves till the combat came to an end. Then hearing the word “quarter,” and seeing signs of amity restored, they slipped their blades back into the scabbards, and sate awaiting orders.
Only one of them received any just then – he the heavy one.
“Dismount, Hubert,” commanded his master, “and return his weapon to this young gentleman, who, as you can testify, well deserves to wear it. And now, sir,” he continued to the young gentleman himself, “along with your sword let me offer you some apologies, which are owing. I admit my words were rather rough, and call for qualification, or, to speak more correctly, explanation. When I said, that the man who is not a Republican must be deficient either in head or heart, I meant one who has reached the years of discretion, and seen something of the world – as, for instance, myself. At your age I too was a believer in kings – even the doctrine of Divine Right – brought up to it. Possibly, when you hear my name you’ll admit that.”
“You will give me your name?” asked the other, eagerly. “I wish it, that I may know to whom I am beholden for so much generosity.”
“Very generous on your part to say say I am Sir Richard Walwyn.”
“Ah! A relative of the Scudamores, are you not?”
“A distant relative. But I’ve not seen any of them lately, having just come back from the Low Countries, where I’ve been fighting a bit. In better practice from that, with my hand still in, which may account for my having got the better of you,” and he again laughed lightly.
The young Cavalier protested against the generous admission, and then went on to say he knew the Scudamores well – especially Lord Scudamore, of Holme Lacey.
“I’ve often met his lordship at the Palace,” was the concluding remark.
“At what palace, pray?” inquired Sir Richard.
“Oh! Whitehall. I did not think of specifying.”
“Which proves that you yourself come from it? One of the King’s people, I take it; or in the Queen’s service, more like?”
“I was, but not now. I’ve been at Court for the last few months in the capacity of gentleman-usher.”
“And now? But I crave pardon. It is rude of me to cross-question you thus.”
“Not at all, Sir Richard. You have every right. After being so frank with me,