'"Yes, but not for a scratch," replies my lady swiftly. Then they cross rapiers, and the play begins. 'My sangs! but it wasn't a play at all, it was a reg'ler battle, a fair duello, and it was all Sir Henry could do to hold his own. They had engaged in "quatre," and no sooner had blades touched than she disengages and feints in "tierce"; then, with an amazing swiftness, she disengages again, and lunges full at him in "sixte"; carelessly he parries with "sixte," and in a flash she disengages again, "beats" his blade downwards, and, for all but a biscuit, has him disarmed. He loses hold of his weapon, his fingers slipping from the quillons, but catches it in mid-air before it drops, leaps back a yard, parrying another lunge clever with his left hand as he does so. '"'Tis a dirty Italian trick ye have learnt! they haven't improved ye abroad!" my lady sneers at him. 'Now, had she been but one flash of an eye quicker with her lunge after the "beat," she'd have had him in "quatre" nicely, but she hadn't thought she could disarm him so easy, and she just missed her chance. Sir Henry, though, had had his lesson; he drops his careless, tempting manner, such as a professor tries a beginner with, and fights cooler and more careful, chucking his bravado airs, for it's dead in earnest she is, and no mere stage-play for the gallery. 'On she comes again like a tigress, evidently trying to "rush" him, and back and back she presses him till the pair o' them's right under the gallery where I was lying. I had my head right through the bars by that time, I was so keen to see the fight, and it was only by stuffing my handkerchief into my mouth that I could stop myself from shouting advice and encouragement to her, she fought so desperate keen and with such a wild-cat pluck. 'It wasn't exactly scientific, her fencing, it was too rash and all-for-victory straight away, but it was grand to see her flashing her rapier in and out, flickering like a serpent's tongue, and all the while her graceful limbs moved softly, swiftly, like a panther's, beneath her silken evening dress. 'Once Sir Henry's foot slipped, and in she comes like a knife, and he only escapes by adopting another Italian trick--that of dropping with the left hand to the floor. She still presses him harder than ever, and I could hear her breathing hotly, "heck, heck," like an angered hawk. Then swift he "binds" with her, but he does it over-viciously and pays for it, for she's agile as a cat, and freeing herself with a leap backward, suddenly with a lightning-like "cut-over" touches him on the sword arm, and though he wouldn't acknowledge it, I knew she'd pricked him, and I could tell that it had roused him to anger in his turn. "You she-devil!" I heard him hiss between his teeth, and now he turned to the offensive himself.