"Cursed rascal!" swore Sturm, growing crimson. And, rushing upon Benedict, he made as he came, two successive _coups de seconde_, so hasty and so furious that Benedict had barely time to parry them, by twice retiring, and then a _parade de seconde_ delivered with such precision and energy that the loose shirt was torn above the waistband, and Benedict felt the cold steel. Another stain of blood appeared. "What! Are you trying to tear off my shirt?" said Benedict, sending his enemy a high _thrust de quarte_, which would have run him through, but that, feeling himself in danger, he flung himself forward in such a manner that the hilts touched, and the two adversaries stood with their swords up face to face. "Here!" cried Benedict, "this will teach you to steal my thrust." And before the seconds could interpose their swords to separate them, Benedict, freeing his arm like a spring, drove the two hilts like the blow of a fist in his adversary's face, who staggered back, his face lacerated and bruised by the blow. Then followed a scene which made those who beheld it shudder. Sturm drew back for an instant, his mouth half-open and foaming, his teeth clenched and bleeding, his lips turned back, his eyes gleaming, bloodshot and almost starting from their sockets, his whole countenance reddish purple. "Blackguard! Dog!" he yelled, waving his stiff-held sword and crouching back for his guard like a jaguar ready to spring. Benedict stood calm, cold, contemptuous. He extended his sword towards him. "You belong to me, now," he said in a solemn voice. "You are about to die." He fell back to his guard, exaggerating the pose as a sort of challenge. He had not to wait long. Sturm was too good a fencer to throw himself unprotected upon his enemy. He advanced sharply one pace, making _un double engagement_, of which Benedict turned aside the second by a _dégagement fait comme on les passe au mur_. Anger had disturbed Sturm's guard, he was lunging with his head down--an attitude which, for this once at least, saved him. The _dégagement_ merely grazed his shoulder by the neck. Blood appeared. "A sleeve for a sleeve," retorted Benedict, falling back quickly to his guard, and leaving a great distance between the general and himself. "Now for it!" The general found himself too far off, took a step forward, gathered all his powers, made a frenzied beating with his sword and struck straight, lunging at the full stretch of his body. All his soul, that is to say, all his hope, was in that blow. This time Benedict, planted firmly on his feet, did not yield an inch; he caught the sword _par un demi cercle_, executed in due form, with his nails held upwards as though he were in a fencing school, and standing over the point of his sword inclined towards his feet: "Now then," he said, delivering his thrust.