"If thou hast any friend to claim thy body, better write his name," said the man in the leather jerkin, as Effingston's blade touched his lightly, emitting a grating sound. The only answer was a swift lunge, dexterously parried. Not three blows were exchanged before Effingston realized that the man before him not only possessed the skill of one long used to sword play, but, further, combined with it the coolness and the keen eye of an old duelist. Moreover, the neutral tint of his adversary's dress offered but a poor mark by which to gauge his thrust, while his own costume, being ornamented with silver, gave his antagonist most effective guidance whereby to aim his strokes. The other, also, came to the conclusion that no mere novice stood before him, for Effingston had turned every thrust with an ease which surprised him; and several times his sword had crept so closely to the leather jerkin that three or four brown furrows had appeared upon it. "Enough of this child's play," Effingston's antagonist hissed between his teeth, making another furious lunge. The impetus given to the thrust would have sent the blade to the hilt into the other's body had it come in contact with it, but Effingston met the blow in a way least expected, making use of a trick but little known in England at that time, for as quickly as the sword flew forward he stepped lightly aside, at the same time advancing his own weapon. The hilts came together with a crash; the guard of one was entangled in the bell of the other, and the two rapiers remained firmly interlocked. The men now stood so closely that their breasts touched, the breath issuing from their parted lips mingling in clouds. Suddenly, almost simultaneously, as if one read the intent in the other's eye, each slowly moved his left arm to his side, seeking the dagger he knew hung there. Again, on the same instant, the knives flashed forth; the men sprang quickly apart; the two rapiers went spinning on the roadway, and with a clatter, became disentangled as they fell. No time for breath; each knows it is to the death, and plenty of rest awaits one or both, perchance, in a few moments. The men leaped toward each other; a confused struggle ensued. Fawkes from his post could illy make out who had the advantage. Suddenly, Effingston's foot slipped, he was almost upon his knees--the man was upon him, one hand gripped his shoulder, forcing him to the ground, the other held the knife lifted high to add force to the blow; but that coveted strength cost him his life, for before the hand could descend, Effingston quickly raised his dagger, and drove it with all his might up to the guard in the neck left unprotected by his adversary's movement. The man clutched at the figure before him, the blade flew from his grasp and he dropped with a bubbling cry to the earth, the blood spurting from him as he fell.