No Quarter! - Майн Рид

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other said; a declaration like defiance, flung in his teeth. Although meant as the clincher of a political argument which had been for some time going on between them, the young Cavalier, taken aback by its boldness, and doubtful of having heard aright, turned sharply upon the other, asking,—

      “What’s that you said, sir?”

      “That the man who is not a Republican must either have a bad head or a bad heart.”

      This time more emphatically, as though nettled by the tone of the other’s interrogative.

      “Indeed!” exclaimed the youth reining up, for they were riding along a road.

      “Indeed, yes,” returned the older man, also drawing bridle. “Or if you prefer it in another form, he who is not a Republican must be either a knave or a fool.”

      “You’re a knave to say so!” cried the silken youth, whose rising wrath had now gathered to a head, his hand as he spoke crossing to the hilt of his sword.

      “Well, youngster,” rejoined the other, seeming, on the contrary, to become calmer, and speaking with a composure strange under the circumstances, “that’s speech plain enough, and rude enough. It almost tempts me to retort by calling you a fool. But I won’t; only, if you value your life you must withdraw your words.”

      “Not one of them! Never, so long as I wear a sword. You shall eat yours first?” and he whipped out his rapier.

      Though journeying side by side, they were quite strangers to one another, an accident having brought them together upon the road, both going in the same direction. It was up the steep declivity leading from the town of Mitcheldean into the Forest, near the point where now stands a mansion called “The Wilderness.” Nor were they altogether alone, two other horsemen, their respective body servants, riding at a little distance behind. It was after surmounting the slope, and having got upon level ground, that their conflict of words reached the climax described, likely to end in one of blows. For to this the fiery youth seemed determined on pushing it.

      Not so the other. On the contrary, he still sat composedly in his saddle, no sign of drawing sword, exhibiting a sang froid curiously in contrast with the warmth he had shown in the wordy disputation. It surely could not be cowardice? If so, it must be of the most craven kind, after that demand for withdrawal of the insulting words.

      And as such the Cavalier conceived, or misconceived, it, crying out,—

      “Draw, caitiff! Defend yourself, if you don’t want me to kill you in cold blood!”

      “Ha-ha-ha!” laughed the other, lightly and satirically. “It’s just because I don’t want to kill you in cold blood that I hesitate baring my blade.”

      “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.

       Table of Contents

      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

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