swordsman, he had done much fighting in his time, had been ever ready for
the touch of steel; and had served some warlike days in fighting France,
where fate had well befriended him. That which Leicester meant should be
by-play of a moment became a full half-hour's desperate game. Leicester
found that the thrust--the fatal thrust learned from an Italian master--
he meant to give, was met by a swift precision, responding to quick
vision. Again and again he would have brought the end, but Lempriere
heavily foiled him. The wound which the Seigneur got at last, meant to
be mortal, was saved from that by the facility of a quick apprehension.
Indeed, for a time the issue had seemed doubtful, for the endurance and
persistence of the Seigneur made for exasperation and recklessness in his
antagonist, and once blood was drawn from the wrist of the great man; but
at length Lempriere went upon the aggressive. Here he erred, for
Leicester found the chance for which he had manoeuvred--to use the feint
and thrust got out of Italy. He brought his enemy low, but only after a
duel the like of which had never been seen at the Court of England. The
toreador had slain his bull at last, but had done no justice to his
reputation. Never did man more gallantly sustain his honour with
heaviest odds against him than did the Seigneur of Rozel that day.

As he was carried away by the merry gentlemen of the Court, he called
back to the favourite:

"Leicester is not so great a swordsman after all. Hang fast to your
honours by the skin of your teeth, my lord."




CHAPTER XIV