De Malfort, provoked at the unexpected strength of Fareham’s fence, attempted a partial disarmament, after the deadly Continental method. Joining his opponent’s blade near the point, from a wide circular parry, he made a rapid thrust in seconde, carrying his forte the entire length of Fareham’s blade, almost wrenching the sword from his grasp; and then, in the next instant, reaching forward to his fullest stretch, he lunged at his enemy’s breast, aiming at the vital region of the heart; a thrust that must have proved fatal had not Fareham sprung aside, and so received the blow where the sword only grazed his ribs, inflicting a flesh-wound that showed red upon the whiteness of his shirt. Dangerfield tore off his cravat, and wanted to bind it round his principal’s waist; but Fareham repulsed him, and lashed into hot fury by the Frenchman’s uncavalier-like ruse, met his adversary’s thrusts with a deadly purpose, which drove De Malfort to reckless lunging and riposting, and the play grew fast and fierce, while the rattle of steel seemed never likely to end. Suddenly, timing his attack to the fraction of a second, Fareham dropped on his left knee, and planting his left hand upon the ground, sent a murderous thrust home under De Malfort’s guard, whose blade passed harmlessly over his adversary’s head as he crouched on the sward. De Malfort fell heavily in the arms of the two seconds, who both sprang to his assistance. “Is it fatal?” asked Fareham, standing motionless as stone, while the other men knelt on either side of De Malfort. “I’ll run for a surgeon,” said Masaroon. “There’s a fellow I know of this side the Abbey—mends bloody noses and paints black eyes,” and he was off, running across the grass to the nearest gate. “It looks plaguily like a coffin,” Dangerfield answered, with his hand on the wounded man’s breast. “There’s throbbing here yet; but he may bleed to death, like poor Lindsey, before surgery can help him. You had better run, Fareham. Take horse to Dover, and get across to Calais or Ostend. You were devilish provoking. It might go hard with you if he was to die.” “I shall not budge, Dangerfield. Didn’t you hear me say I wanted to kill him? You might guess I didn’t care a cast of the dice for my life when I said as much. Let them find it murder, and hang me. I wanted him out of the world, and don’t care how soon I follow.” “You are mad—stark, staring mad!” The wounded man raised himself on his elbow, groaning aloud in the agony of movement, and beckoned Fareham, who knelt down beside him, all of a piece, like a stone figure. “Fareham, you had better run; I have powerful friends. There’ll be an ugly stir if I die of this bout. Kiss me, mon ami. I forgive you. I know what wound rankled; ’twas for your wife’s sister you fought—not the cards.”