Draw your sword and let
us fight!"
They fought. The platform of rock was smooth enough for good footing.
They had no seconds, unless the shadows upon the hills and the
mountain eagles answered for such. Ian was the highly trained fencer,
adept of the sword. Glenfernie's knowledge was lesser, more casual.
But he had his bleak wrath, a passion that did not blind nor overheat,
but burned white, that set him, as it were, in a tingling, crackling
arctic air, where the shadows were sharp-edged, the nerves braced and
the will steel-tipped. They fought with determination and long--Ian
now to save his own life, Alexander for Revenge, whose man he had
become. The clash of blade against blade, the shifting of foot upon
the rock floor, made the dominant sound upon the mountain-side. The
birds stayed silent in the birch-trees. Self-service, pride, anger,
jealousy, hatred--the inner vibrations were heavy.
The sword of Ian beat down his antagonist's guard, leaped, and gave a
deep wound. Alexander's sword fell from his hand. He staggered and
vision darkened. He came to his knees, then sank upon the ground. Ian
bent over him. He felt his anger ebb. A kind of compunction seized
him. He thought, "Are you so badly hurt, Old Steadfast?"
Alexander looked at him. His lips moved. "Lo, how the wicked prosper!
But do you think that Justice will have it so?" The blood gushed; he
sank back in a swoon.
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