"Ay, aught you will! I've been pining for a fight for many a long day. You're a man after my heart, stap me if you're not! Here, wait while I fetch my sword!" He hurried out of the room, returning in a very short time with a rapier. "I've told my man that you have come to fence with me. But we'll lock the door in case of accidents. How does my sword measure with yours?" Philip compared them. "Very well." His eyes danced suddenly. "_Dieu!_ I never thought to fight so strange a duel!" He pulled off his boots. "We'll fight in wigs, yes? One is so displeasing without a hair to one's head." "A dozen, if you like!" Brenderby struggled out of his coat and vest. "You know, you are shorter than I am. We're not fair matched." Philip laughed, tucking up his ruffles. "No matter. You see, I must win!" "Why?" Brenderby made an imaginary pass in the air. "So much depends on it," explained Philip. "Is the light fair to both?" "Fair enough," said Brenderby. "You are ready, then? _Eh bien!_" The blades met and hissed together. Opening in quarte, Brenderby seemed at first to be the better of the two. Philip stayed on the defensive, parrying deftly and allowing Brenderby to expend his energies. Once Brenderby's blade flashed out and all but pinked Philip, but he managed to recover his opposition in time. His eyes opened wider; he became more cautious. Suddenly he descried an opening and lunged forward. There was a moment's scuffle, and Brenderby put the murderous point aside. Then Philip seemed to quicken. When Brenderby began to pant, Philip changed his tactics, and gave back thrust for thrust. His wrist was like flexible steel; his footwork was superb; the whole style of his fencing was different from that of Brenderby. All at once Brenderby saw an opening. He thrust in quinte, steel scraped against steel, and Philip's point flashed into his right arm above the elbow. Brenderby staggered back, clutched at his arm, and tried to raise his sword again. But Philip was at his side, supporting him. "It's only a flesh wound--painful now--_bien sûr_. It will--heal quickly. I do not--mistake," he gasped. "Damme--I'm not done for--yet!" "But yes! I fight--no more. You cannot--keep your blade--steady--now! Sit down!" He lowered Brenderby into a chair, and whisked out his handkerchief. He bound up Sir Deryk's wound and fetched him a glass of wine from a decanter on the sideboard. "Thanks!" Sir Deryk gulped it down. "But where are my manners? Pour some for yourself, Jettan! Gad, but you pinked me neatly!" He seemed to slip back into his habitual drawl. "As pretty a piece of sword-play as I wish to see. But you fence French-fashion." Philip drank some wine. "Yes. It was at Paris that I learned. With Guillaume Corvoisier." "No!" Brenderby heaved himself up. "Corvoisier, forsooth! No wonder you're so quick!" Philip smiled and bowed. "You frightened me more than once, sir." "Faith, it wasn't apparent then! You were so intent on winning?"