The duellists were now almost in the centre of the room, and they paused a moment for breath. I knew, by the compression of their lips, that each was preparing for his greatest effort, and we were silent, awaiting the issue. The sword play began again, and the weapons rang across each other. The heavy breathing of the combatants sounded distinctly, and the soft beat of their footsteps, as they shifted about the room, made a light, sliding noise, like the restless tread of wild animals in a cage. The Hessian's sword passed close to Marcel's side, cutting his coat; but when Marcel's blade flashed in return, it came back with blood upon it. The keen edge had passed along the Hessian's wrist, leaving a red thread. The cut was not deep, but it had a sting to it, and Steinfeldt shut his teeth hard. Marcel's sword was now making lines of light about him, and the Hessian's part in the combat soon became a defence only. He was pressed back, an inch or two at a time, but without cessation. Then I saw the great skill of my comrade. His lips were shut tight, but his eyes remained calm and confident, and the sword seemed to have become a part of himself, so truly did it obey his will. The Hessian's face slowly darkened, and the light in his eyes, that had been the light of anger and defiance, became the light of fear. And it was the fear of death. He read nothing else in the gleaming blade and calm look of the man before him. Two or three drops of perspiration stood out on his forehead. "Bad, bad! Steinfeldt has lost!" I heard the Englishman Osborne say under his breath. I studied Marcel's face, but I could not discover his intentions there. That he carried the Hessian's life on the point of his sword, everyone in the room now knew, and the Hessian himself knew it best of all. But Steinfeldt had courage, I give him all credit for that, whatever else he may have been. A man must be brave to fight on, in the face of what he knows is certain death. Back went the Hessian, closer and closer to the wall, and always before him was the calm, unsmiling face and gleaming sword that whistled so near and threatened every moment to strike a mortal blow. The suspense became unbearable. I felt like crying out: "Have done and end such a game," and I bit my lip to enforce my own silence. The Hessian's back suddenly touched the wall, and the sword of Marcel flashed a second time along his wrist, leaving another red thread beside the first. Then it flashed back again, and the weapon of the Hessian, drawn from his hand, fell clattering on the floor. The defenceless man stood as if he expected a stroke; but I knew that Marcel would never give it. He thrust his own sword into its scabbard, bowed to his opponent with the easy and graceful politeness that he loved, and turned to us as if awaiting our will. I have often wondered where Marcel got that manner of his, and I have concluded that it came from his French blood.