It was not long before Lot Hardacre began to sweat. The expression on his round and buxom face changed remarkably. He smiled no longer, but looked puzzled and not a little impatient. Who the devil would have thought that this scholar fellow could make so good a fight of it? Instinctive and obstinate contempt got the better of Mr. Hardacre’s temper. He began to fume and swear under his breath at finding Jeffray’s sword ever at point against him. What, should he, Lot Hardacre, be kept playing by a mere lad who could do nothing but write poetry! Losing his coolness and his self-restraint, he closed in on his cousin, and put yet more dash and spirit into his attack. Even to Bess’s keen but uncritical eyes it seemed that the big man was no match for Jeffray in litheness and suppleness of wrist. Richard was swifter, cooler, defter on his feet. He carried himself as though he could go on fencing for an hour, while Lot, red and sweaty, stamped to and fro, grunting and laboring, setting his teeth, and breathing fiercely through his nostrils. Suddenly the whole method of the bout changed. Jeffray’s sword began to stab and glimmer, coming at every pass within perilous nearness to his cousin’s skin. Lot Hardacre began to tire and give ground. He seemed flurried, bustled, winded, and out of heart. Jeffray pressed him harder than before, amused by the astonished fury on his cousin’s face. He took his chance at last, and clinched the argument. Feinting, he lunged in under Lot’s swerving blade, and ran him through the flesh of the right breast a hand’s-breadth below the shoulder. Lot Hardacre snarled like a hurt dog, staggered, and fell back against Mr. Beaty, who had sprung forward to catch him. A broadening patch of scarlet showed on the white shirt, and blood trickled down the wounded man’s sword-arm. He recovered himself, thrust Bob Beaty off with an oath, and stood on guard. Jeffray, who was watching him with his point lowered, drew back and held his sword crosswise across his thigh. “You are hard hit, Lot,” he said; “you are not fit to fight again.” Mr. Hardacre ground his teeth and swore at him. “Are you afraid?” he retorted. “I warn you—” “Damn you, put your point up.” Lot made a dash at him, his mouth working, his eyes looking like the eyes of an angry dog. He thrust savagely at Jeffray, laboring with his breath, blood soaking his white shirt. Once his point grazed Jeffray, and for the moment Bess thought that the sword had passed through his body. Richard, losing patience at last as he realized the sincerity of his cousin’s hate, threw more fierceness into his play, and drove at Lot with swift good-will. For a minute or less there was a grim shimmering and shrilling of steel, a fine tussle fought out fiercely to a finish. Lot let fly a wild thrust, missed, over-reached himself, staggered as he tried to recover. In an instant Jeffray’s sword stabbed out in a flashing counter. The point smote Lot full in the chest.