The Quiet Gentleman

"Then choose a foil, and see what you can achieve with it! All these wild and whirling words don't impress me, you know. Perhaps your sword-play may command my respect!" He paused, while Martin stood irresolute, and added softly: "No? Do you think you can't creditably engage with such a dandified fellow as I am?"

Martin's eyes flashed; he grasped one of the hilts, exclaiming furiously: "We'll see that!"

"Gently! Don't draw the blade through my hand!" Gervase said, allowing him to take the foil he had chosen. "How does the length suit you?"

"I have frequently fenced with this pair!"

"You have the advantage of me, then: I find them a trifle overlong, and not as light in hand as I could wish. However, that is a common fault."

He moved away to the centre of the Armoury as he spoke, and waited there while Martin flung off his coat. Martin swiftly followed him, torn between annoyance and a desire to demonstrate his skill to one whom he suspected of mocking him. He knew himself to have been well-taught, and was, indeed, so much above the average at most forms of sport that he expected to give a very good account of himself. But after a few minutes he was brought to realize that he had met his master. The Earl fought with a pace and a dexterity which flustered him a little, and never did he seem to be able to break through that unwavering guard. Every attack was baffled by a close parade, and when he attempted a feint, Gervase smiled, his wrist in no way led astray, and said as he delivered a straight thrust: "Oh, no, no! If you must feint, you should oppose your forte, moving your point nearer to my forte, or you won't very easily hit me."

Martin returned no answer. He was panting, and the sweat was beginning to stain his shirt. Had his adversary been any other man he would have been delighted to have found himself matched with a swordsman so much superior to himself, and would not in the least have resented his inability to score a hit. But it galled him unspeakably to be unable to break through the guard of so effeminate a person as Gervase, who never seemed at any moment to be hard-pressed, or even to be exerting himself very much. He was obliged to acknowledge a number of hits, his choler steadily rising. A return from the wrist, which caught him in mid-thrust, destroyed the last rags of his temper; he parried a carte thrust half-circle, his weight thrown on to his left hip, and swiftly turned his wrist in tierce, inclining the point of the left, with the intention of crossing the Earl's blade. But just as he was about to do so, Gervase disengaged, giving way with the point, so that it was Martin's blade, meeting no opposition, which leaped from his hand, and not his brother's.

"So your master taught you that trick!" Gervase said, a little out of breath. "Very few do so nowadays. But it's dangerous, you know, unless you have very great swiftness and precision. Try again! Or have you had enough?"

"No!" Martin shot at him, snatching up his foil, and dragging his shirt-sleeve across his wet brow. "Damn you, I'm not so easily exhausted! I'll hit you yet! I'm out of practice!"

"You might hit me out of practice; you won't do it out of temper," said Gervase dryly.

"Won't I? Won't I?" gasped Martin, stung to blind rage by this merited but decidedly provocative rebuke.

He closed the Earl's blade, and on the instant saw that the button had become detached from his point. Gervase saw it too, and quickly retired his left foot, to get out of distance. "Take care!" he said sharply.

"You may take care!" Martin panted, and delivered a rather wild thrust in prime. It was parried by the St. George Guard; and even as he became conscious of the enormity of what he had done, he found himself very hard-pressed indeed. He would have dropped his point at a word, but the word was not spoken. Gervase was no longer smiling, and his eyes had narrowed, their lazy good-humour quite vanished. Martin was forced to fight. A careless, almost mechanical thrust in carte over the arm was parried by a sharp beat of the Earl's forte, traversing the line of his blade, and bearing his wrist irresistibly upwards. The Earl's left foot came forward; his hand seized the shell of Martin's sword, and forced it out to the right; he gripped it fast, and presented the button of his foil to Martin's face.

"The Disarm!" he said, holding Martin's eyes with his own.

Martin relinquished his foil. His chest was heaving; he seemed as though he would have said something, but before he could recover his breath enough to do so an interruption occurred. Theo, who, for the past few minutes, had been standing, with Miss Morville, rooted on the threshold, strode forward, ejaculating thunderously: "Martin! Are you mad?"