quarrels can only be settled with them," mused the Emir. "What says our other honoured guest . . . ?"
"Oh, I'll fight him!" spoke up Becque. "It will give me real pleasure to kill this chatter-box. . . ."
He turned to me with a smile that lifted one corner of his mouth and showed a gleaming dog-tooth.
"And so you are the bright de Beaujolais, are you?" he marvelled. "Well, well, well! Think of that now! . . . De Beaujolais--the Beau Sabreur of the Blue Hussars! . . . De Beaujolais, the Beau Sabreur of the Spahis and the Secret Service! . . . De Beaujolais, the Hero of Zinderneuf! . . . Well, my friend, I'll make you de Beaujolais of a little hole in the sand, shortly, and see you where the birds won't trouble you--and you won't trouble me! . . . The great and clever de Beaujolais! . . . Ha! Ha! Ha!" And the brave, brazen rogue roared with laughter.
(But how in the name of his father the Devil did he know anything of the affair at Zinderneuf?)
"You shall fight as soon as the light is good," said the Emir. "And you shall fight with Arab swords--a strange weapon to each of you, and therefore fair for both"; and, calling to Yussuf Fetata, he bade him send for two swords of equal length and weight and of exactly similar shape.
Chapter XV.
"Men Have Their Exits . . ."
Half an hour later, Becque and I stood face to face in the shadow, cast by the rising sun, of a great clump of palms.
We were stripped to the waist, and wore only baggy Arab trousers and soft boots.
Each held a noble two-edged sword, pliant as cane, sharp as a razor, exact model of those brought to the country by Louis the Good and his Crusaders. I verily believe they were Crusaders' swords, for there are many such in that dry desert where nothing rusts and a good sword is more prized, cared for, and treasured, than a good woman.
I looked for a knightly crest on the blade of mine. Had there been one, and had it been the very crest of the de Beaujolais family (for I have ancestors who went on Crusade)--what an omen! What a glorious and wonderful coincidence! What a tale to tell!
But I will be truthful and admit that there was no private mark whatever. Such things do not happen in real life--though it is stark fact that a venerable friend of mine killed a Dahomeyan warrior in Dodd's advance on Dahomey, and took from him the very Gras rifle that he himself had carried as a private in 1870! (He knew it both by its number and by a bullet-hole in the butt. It had evidently been sold to these people by some dealer in condemned army stores.)
The only fault I had to find with my beautiful Crusader sword was that it had no hand-guard, nothing between handle and blade but a thin straight cross-piece. However, the same applied to Becque's weapon.
I looked at Becque. He "peeled well" as English boxers say, was finely muscled, and in splendid condition.
Whether the strangeness of our weapons would be in his favour as a stronger if less finished swordsman, or in mine, remained to be seen.
He spat upon his right hand--coarse and vulgar as ever--and swung his sword mightily, trying its weight and balance.
In a little group under the trees stood the Emir, the Vizier; young Yussuf Fetata (to whose family the swords belonged); the powerful dwarf who had first captured me, Marbruk ben Hassan; the Emir's body-servant, El R'Orab the Crow; the Egyptian-Arab colleague of Becque, and a few soldiers.
"Hear my words," said the Emir, and his hawk-like stare was turned to Becque, "for the least attempt at foul play, I will shoot you dead. . . . When I say 'Begin'--do so. When I say 'Stop,' do so instantly. . . . I shall not say 'Stop' while both of you are on your feet, unless one of you does anything unbecoming a chivalrous warrior. . . ."
I bowed and gave the Emir the sword-salute. . . .
"Begin!" he said a moment later, and Becque repeated the very tactics of our previous duel.
He rushed at me like a tiger, his sword moving like forked lightning, and I gave my whole mind and body to parry and defence. I was not in the best of health and strength, thanks to my wound, my sleepless nights of anxiety, and my confinement to the tent--and if Becque chose to force the pace and tire himself, I was content.
All critics of my "form" have praised my foot-work, and I used my feet and brain to save my arm, for the swords were heavy.
At the end of his first wild whirling attack, when his sword ceased for a moment to rise and fall like a flail in the hands of a madman, I feinted for his head, and, as his sword went up, I lunged as though I held a sabre. He sprang back like a cat, and then made a Maltese-cross pattern with his sword--as though he were a Highlander wielding a light claymore--when I pursued.
Nothing could pass that guard--but it was expensive work, costly in strength and breath, and he was very welcome to make that impressive display--and I kept him at it by light and rapid feints. . . .
Suddenly his sword went up and back, as to smite straight down upon my skull, and, judging that I had time for the manoeuvre, I did not parry--but sprang to my left and slashed in a smart coup de flanc that took him across the ribs beneath the raised right arm. A little higher and he would never have lifted his arm again; but, as it was, I gave him a gash that would mean a nice little blood-letting. In the same second, his sword fell perpendicularly on my right thigh, merely slicing off an inconsiderable--shall I say "rasher"--and touching no artery nor vein of importance.
I had drawn first blood--first by a fraction of a second--and I had inflicted a wound and received a graze.
"Mary Vanbrugh," I whispered.
I saw momentary fear in Becque's eyes, but knew it was only fear that I had wounded him too severely for him to continue the fight.
He began to retreat; he retreated quickly; he almost ran backward for a few paces--and, as I swiftly followed, he ducked, most cleverly and swiftly, below my sword--as it cut sideways at his neck--and lunged splendidly at my breast. A side step only just saved me, for his point and edge ploughed along the flesh of my left side and the other edge cut my upper arm as it rested for the moment against my body. . . . But the quick riposte has always been my strong point, and before his sword returned on guard, I cut him heavily across the head.
Unfortunately it was only a back-handed blow delivered as my sword returned to guard, and it was almost the hilt that struck him. Had it been the middle of the edge--even at such close quarters and back-handed--the cut would have been more worthy of the occasion. As it was, it did friend Becque no good at all.
"Mary Vanbrugh," I whispered, a second time.
And then my opponent changed his tactics and used his sword two-handed.
One successful stroke delivered thus would lop off a limb or sever a head from a body--but though the force of every blow is doubled in value, the quickness of every parry is halved, and, since my opponent chose to turn his weapon into a mace, I turned mine into a foil, instead of obediently following his tactics.
It was rhinoceros against leopard now, strong dog against quick cat--possibly Goliath against David. . . .
Hitherto
