“Do not hesitate to tell me, M. de Wardes, if you do not feel comfortable upon the wet sand, or if you think yourself a little too close to French territory. We could fight in England, or even upon my yacht.” “We are exceedingly well placed here, my lord; only I have the honor to remark that, as the sea is rising fast, we have hardly time--” Buckingham made a sign of assent, took off his doublet and threw it on the ground, a proceeding which De Wardes imitated. Both their bodies, which seemed like phantoms to those who were looking at them from the shore, were thrown strongly into relief by a dark red violet-colored shadow with which the sky became overspread. “Upon my word, your Grace,” said De Wardes, “we shall hardly have time to begin. Do you not perceive how our feet are sinking into the sand?” “I have sunk up to the ankles,” said Buckingham, “without reckoning that the water is even now breaking in upon us.” “It has already reached me. As soon as you please, therefore, your Grace,” said De Wardes, who drew his sword, a movement imitated by the duke. “M. de Wardes,” said Buckingham, “one final word. I am about to fight you because I do not like you,--because you have wounded me in ridiculing a certain devotional regard I have entertained, and one which I acknowledge that, at this moment, I still retain, and for which I would very willingly die. You are a bad and heartless man, M. de Wardes, and I will do my very utmost to take your life; for I feel assured that, if you survive this engagement, you will, in the future, work great mischief towards my friends. That is all I have to remark, M. de Wardes,” concluded Buckingham as he saluted him. “And I, my lord, have only this to reply to you: I have not disliked you hitherto, but, since you give me such a character, I hate you, and will do all I possibly can to kill you;” and De Wardes saluted Buckingham. Their swords crossed at the same moment, like two flashes of lightning on a dark night. The swords seemed to seek each other, guessed their position, and met. Both were practiced swordsmen, and the earlier passes were without any result. The night was fast closing in, and it was so dark that they attacked and defended themselves almost instinctively. Suddenly De Wardes felt his word arrested,--he had just touched Buckingham’s shoulder. The duke’s sword sunk, as his arm was lowered. “You are wounded, my lord,” said De Wardes, drawing back a step or two. “Yes, monsieur, but only slightly.” “Yet you quitted your guard.” “Only from the first effect of the cold steel, but I have recovered. Let us go on, if you please.” And disengaging his sword with a sinister clashing of the blade, the duke wounded the marquis in the breast. “A hit?” he said. “No,” cried De Wardes, not moving from his place. “I beg your pardon, but observing that your shirt was stained--” said Buckingham. “Well,” said De Wardes furiously, “it is now your turn.”