we had crossed swords point downward, as in "sabres," now I held mine point upward as in "foils," and dodged and danced on my toes, feinting for a thrust.
Cut or thrust? . . .
A cut from Becque would be death for de Beaujolais--and I was very sure a thrust from de Beaujolais would be death for Becque. . . .
My foe forced the pace again. . . . He rushed like a bull, and I dodged like a matador. A hundred times his sword swept past my head like a mighty scythe, and so swift was he that never had I a chance for the matador's stroke--the coup de grâce. We were both panting, our breath whistling through parched throats and mouths, our bare chests heaving like bellows. . . . We were streaming with sweat and blood--and, with glaring glassy eye, Becque was fiercely scowling, and he was hoarsely croaking:
"Curse you! you damned dancing-master! God smite you! . . . Blast you, you jumping monkey!" with each terrific stroke; and de Beaujolais was smiling and whispering "Mary Vanbrugh . . . Mary . . . Mary . . ." but, believe me, de Beaujolais was weakening, for he had lost a lot of blood, his left arm was a useless weight of lead, he was growing giddy and sick and faint--and suddenly Becque, with a look of devilish hate and rage upon his contorted face, swept his sword once more above his head, and this time swept it up too far!
It was well above his head--and pointing downward behind him--for a stroke that should cleave me to the chin, when I dropped my point and lunged with all my strength and speed. . . . "Mary Vanbrugh!" . . .
* * *
I had won. My sword stood out a foot behind him. . . .
He tottered and fell. . . . My knees turned to water and I collapsed across his body.
"Exit Becque!" thought I, as I went down--"and perhaps de Beaujolais too! . . ."
* * *
I recovered in a few minutes, to find that the Emir himself was holding my head and pouring glorious cold water on my face, chest and hands. . . . The Vizier was washing my cuts. . . .
Becque was not dead--but, far from surgeons and hospitals, no man could long survive the driving of that huge sword through his body. . . .
Poor devil!--but he was a devil!
* * *
"The Sitt has bandages and cordials," I said to the Emir, as I rose to my feet, and he at once despatched R'Orab the Crow to bid the slave-girls of the anderun to ask the lady Sitt to send what was needed for a wounded man.
I did what I could for the unconscious Becque and then I resumed my jelabia, haik, kafiyeh and burnous, after drinking deeply of the cool water, and dabbing my bleeding wounds.
The congratulatory Arabs crowded round me, filled with admiration of the victor. Would they have done the same with Becque, if he had won? . . . Nothing succeeds like success. . . . To him that hath shall be given. . . . Væ victis. . . . Thumbs down for the loser. . . .
"Do you send for medicaments for yourself or for your enemy, Sidi?" asked the Emir.
"For my enemy, Emir," I replied. "It is the Christian custom."
"But he is your enemy," said the Emir.
"Anyone can help an injured friend," I replied. "If that is held to be a virtue, how much more is it a virtue to help a fallen foe?"
Sententious--but suitable to the company and the occasion.
The Emir smiled and shook my hand in European fashion, and the Vizier followed his example.
I was in high favour and regard--for the moment--as the winner of a good stout fight. . . . For the moment! . . . What of the morrow, when their chivalrous fighting blood had cooled--and my foul insults and abuse were remembered? . . .
§ 2
And then appeared Mary Vanbrugh, following El R'Orab, who carried the medicine chest and a bottle and some white stuff--lint or cotton-wool and bandages.
I might have known that she would not merely send the necessary things, when she heard of wounds and injuries.
She glanced at the semi-conscious Becque, a hideous gory spectacle, and then at me. I suppose I looked haggard and dishevelled and there was a little blood on my clothes--also I held the good sword, that had perhaps saved her life and honour, in my hand.
"Your work?" she said in a voice of ice and steel.
I did not deny it.
"More Duty?" she asked most bitterly, and her voice was scathing. "Oh, you Killer, you professional paid hireling Slayer. . . . Oh, you Murderer in the sacred name of your noble Duty! . . . Tell these men to bring me a lot more water--and to make a stretcher with spears or tent-poles and some rugs . . ." and she got to work like a trained nurse.
"Tear up a clean burnous, or something, in long strips," she said as I knelt to help her . . . "and then get out of my sight--you sicken me. . . ."
"Are you hurt, too?" she asked a moment later, as more blood oozed through from my thigh, ribs and arm.
"A little," I replied.
"I am glad you are," said Miss Vanbrugh; "it serves you right"--and then . . . "Suppose it had been you lying here dying . . . ?"
I supposed it, and thanked the good God that it was not--for her sake.
When she had cleaned, sterilized and bandaged Becque's ghastly wound, she bade me tell the Arabs to have him carried to the Guest-tents and laid on my bed, that she might nurse him! Her orders were obeyed, and, under her superintendence, the wounded man was carried away with all possible care.
I noticed that the Emir bade Yussuf Fetata conduct the Egyptian-Arab back to his tent, and see that he did not leave it.
When everything possible had been done for Becque, and he lay on my bed motionless and only imperceptibly breathing, Mary Vanbrugh turned to me.
"I'll attend to you now, Killer," said she.
"Thank you, Miss Vanbrugh," I replied, "I can attend to what scratches I have quite well."
She looked at me, as in doubt. Her instinctive love of mothering and succouring the injured seemed to be at war with her instinctive hatred of those who cause the injury.
"Let me see the wound in your side," she said. "If you can look after your leg yourself, you cannot dress and bandage a wound in the ribs properly."
"I wouldn't trouble you for worlds, Miss Vanbrugh," I replied. "Doubtless the noted Doctor Hadji Abdul Salam will treat me. . . . These Arab specialists have some quite remarkable methods, such as making one swallow an appropriate quotation from the Q'ran, written on paper or rag, correctly blessed and suitably sanctified. . . . Do me a lot of good, I should think. . . . And possibly Maudie would lend a hand if the Doctor thinks a bandage . . ." And then loss of blood, following a terrific fight (on an empty stomach) had its humiliating effect on my already enfeebled
