Very soon, sufficient space having been cleared to satisfy his lordship, he tugged off the sky-blue coat, tossed it aside, kicked off his shoes and, laughing in arrogant assurance, drew his sword and stood waiting. Sir John made his dispositions with a leisured ease that set my lord swearing in vicious impatience, while his friends snuffed, nodded and watched the victim prepare himself for the inevitable outcome with more or less sympathy; in especial one, a long-legged, sleepy gentleman who, unheeding Lord Sayle’s angry glare, approached Sir John and bowed. “Sir,” said he, “m’ name’s Amberley. It seems y’ave no friend t’act for ye in case of—ah—of——” “My sudden demise?” smiled Sir John. “Precisely, sir. If you should wish any message d’livered t’any one—any commission o’ the kind, shall be happy t’offer myself—name of Amberley, sir.” “Mr. Amberley, pray receive my thanks, but I have no message for any one——” “Damnation!” cried my lord. “Is he ready, Amberley?” “Quite!” murmured Sir John, and drawing his sword he tossed the scabbard upon the table, and approaching Lord Sayle, saluted and fell to his guard. Slimmer than usual he looked as he stood thus gracefully poised, and of no great stature, yet, in that moment, observing his eyes and mouth, no one would have called him “insignificant”—especially one who leaned against the door, hands clenched, eyes wide, waiting for what was to be. The narrow blades crossed, and immediately rose a thud of quick-moving, purposeful feet and clink of murderous steel. Lord Sayle’s onset was impetuous as usual, his attacks viciously direct and powerful; but time and again his darting point was met, his lightning thrusts parried, though only just in time, and as if more by accident than skill; noting which, he laughed scornfully and pressed his attack more fiercely; twice he forced Sir John to break ground until, espying an opening in his antagonist’s defence after a wide parade, he lounged swiftly, gasped and, dropping his weapon, staggered with Sir John’s blade transfixing his sword-arm from wrist to elbow. And now was confusion: a wild ringing of bells, calling for water and sponges, running for lint and bandages, while Sir John did on his shoes, and eased himself into his tight-fitting riding-coat. My Lord Sayle, a-sprawl in arm-chair while his friends washed and stanched his wounds, alternately cursed and groaned, heaping his late antagonist with passionate revilings and bitter invective until, what with anger and pain, his voice failed him at last. Then Sir John spoke in chilling scorn: “Thou contemptible thing! Thou man of straw! Egad, and can it be you set all London by the ears? ’S life, my lord, your fencing is like your manners, exceeding indifferent. I might ha’ killed you any time I wished!” My Lord Sayle struggled to his feet, raving like a madman and calling for his sword, until, constrained by his friends, he sank back in the chair and suffered their ministrations, but raving still.