and, no doubt, expecting me to prove an easy victim of his skill. His
first onslaught, a trick thrust under my guard, caused me to give back a
step or two, and this small success yielded him the over-confidence I
always prefer that an opponent have. I was young, agile, cool-headed,
instructed since early boyhood by my father, a rather famous swordsman,
in the mysteries of the game, yet I preferred that Grant should deem me a
novice. With this in mind, and in order that I might better study the
man's style, I remained strictly on defence, giving way slightly before
the confident play of his steel, content with barely turning aside the
gleaming point before it pricked me. At first he mistook this for
weakness, sneering at my parries, as he bore in with increasing
recklessness.

"A club would be more in your line, I take it, Mr. Lieutenant Fortesque,"
he commented sarcastically, "but I'll play with you a while for
practice--ah! that was a lucky turn of the wrist! So you do know a trick
or two? Perhaps you have a parry for that thrust as well! Ah! an inch
more and I'd have pricked you--your defence is not bad for a boy! By all
the gods, I tasted blood then--now I'll give you a harder nut to crack!"

I was fighting silently, with lips closed, husbanding my breath, scarcely
hearing his comments. Every stroke, every thrust, gave me insight of his
school, and instinctively my blade leaped forth to turn aside his point.
He was a swordsman, stronger than I, and of longer reach, yet his tricks
were old, and he relied more on strength than subtlety of fence. Our
swords gleamed against each other in the glitter of the stars, both
content with thrust and parry, as we circled, watchful for some opening.
Then, confident I had gauged my man, I began to drive in upon him,
returning thrust for thrust, and trying a trick or two of my own. He
countered with skill, laughing and taunting me, until his jeers made me