In the opening exchanges, Catron attacked. He was in and out with a hateful ferocity, thrusting and pressing, as one whose merest wish is murder. Noah gave backward not at all, but stood like a wall, risking all on eye and wrist. I could not catch the sleight of it, but again and again, as Catron thrust, I could see the lead-colored blade glimmer by Noah's side with not an open inch to give away. As Noah told me later, however, an inch in fencing is a wide margin. Catron felt his strength slip from him; it was like the sands running from an hour-glass. But the rogue's heart summoned stoutness. Finding himself going, Catron must crowd the strife to an end before it ended him. He leaped back to get his distance; then without pause, and giving a sort of bellowing, roaring cry that may have been a scheme for terror, he sprang forward, sending on his point as straight as the stroke of a serpent. What befell was like the lightning's flash; and no man's gaze, however trained to the trick of it, might follow. Noah did not parry, but stood aside from the other's point, which, passing, grazed his garments. Noah's point, in retort, entered Catron's sword arm just above the guard. I saw Noah hold his own hand high, and with point a bit lowered. Noah ripped up his foe's arm--split it like a mackerel!--from wrist to shoulder. [Illustration: 0142] It was a gaping furrow of a wound; and the horrid shock of it, when Noah's steel caught in the shoulder bones, brought the wretched Catron to the floor. The blood ran away in a crimson rivulet from the prostrate one; and to tell the best and the worst of me, I've yet to look on blood, or anything besides, which brought me so much of comfort and of the sweetness of peace. While the surgeon, needle and lint going, dealt with Catron, I conveyed Noah to the end of the room. We must await the report of yon fellow's condition; we could not leave the field without consent of Pigeon-breast--quite pale and stricken now, was Pigeon-breast, as he stood watching while the bandages were wound. Following a nod of the surgeon's, Pigeon-breast came towards me. I met him on his way. “The thing is ended,” said Pigeon-breast; his voice came huskily, and in a fashion faint. “The thing is at an end. My friend can not hold sword.” “That is enough,” said I. “One word, sir,” said Noah, coming forward, handkerchief all red where he had been cleaning his blade; “you are to take notice: I from this day shall seek out with challenge each man who speaks evil of Mrs. Eaton. That creature who lies there, and whom, maugre his wound, I still contemn for the rogue and fetch-dog of Henry Clay I painted him, may be for warning.” “But has Mrs. Eaton no husband to fight for her?” sputtered Pigeon-breast, not relishing Noah's attitude.