The Masqueraders · Chapter 16 (2/2)

“Nothing, be sure, would please me more, Sir Anthony,” Rensley answered, “but I have a meeting with your protégé tomorrow and your quarrel must wait on his.”

“Really, Tony, you must⁠—”

“Give me leave, Molyneux.” A hand was raised to enjoin silence. “I don’t wait on young Merriot’s pleasure, Rensley.”

“In this instance, sir, you will find you must.”

Sir Anthony smiled. “You must think me a much bigger fool than I am, Mr. Rensley.”

“I doubt it, sir!” There was a bite to the words.

“Oh, but you do, my good Rensley, if you suppose that I do not perfectly understand the meaning of this refusal of yours to meet me now.”

“And what is the meaning, sir?”

Sir Anthony pointed his long cane at Rensley, and answered in a voice of indulgent scorn. “Oh, you will prove your mettle on young Merriot to the satisfaction of the world, and I shall hear next that you sustained some slight hurt in that encounter for which the surgeon prescribes a foreign clime.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “No, no, Rensley, it won’t serve!”

Mr. Rensley’s hand shook on his sword hilt, but it was not from fright. “To hell with your insinuations!” he cried. “You’d say I fear to meet you, eh?”

“I say, Mr. Rensley, that you dare not meet me now or at any time,” Sir Anthony replied, to the astonishment of his friends. His hand came up, and he struck Mr. Rensley lightly across the mouth with the glove he held.

There was a choked oath, and the rasp of steel scraping against the scabbard. Mr. Rensley’s sword was out.

Galliano leaped in with his foil raised. “Ah, ah! Put up ze sword! Put up, I say! You go to make a scandal of me, ze pair of you!” he cried.

“I will fight you here and now, Sir Anthony!” thundered Mr. Rensley, and flung his hat and cane aside.

There came a gleam into the grey eyes. “Give us houseroom, Gally,” said Sir Anthony. “What a pity neither of us had time to acquire the Kiss!”

“Anthony, you’re surely mad!” Mr. Molyneux’s voice was urgent in his ear.

“I was never more sane, believe me,” Sir Anthony assured him, coming out of his coat. “Lock the door, Gally.” He tucked up his ruffles. “There’s a letter in my desk, Molyneux, in case⁠—. You’ll find it.”

“Fanshawe, I do beseech you⁠—”

“Pray don’t, my dear fellow; it’s quite useless. Gally, my friend, help me to pull off these boots, of your compassion.”

The Italian pulled them off for him, but he looked up with a worried face. “What comes to me over zis, hein? You make me a scandal, Saire Anthony!”

“Have no fear, Gally; there will be no scandal.”

Sir Raymond Orton came punctiliously forward to meet Mr. Molyneux, and swords were measured. Mr. Molyneux said, over the business:⁠—“It should be stopped, Orton. Fanshawe’s mad.”

“Stark mad!” agreed Orton cheerfully. “But it’s famous sport, after all, and there’s no stopping them now. My man’s itching to be at it. Are we ready?”

There was a formal salute, and the blades came together. In a moment there was no sound in the room save the clash and scrape of steel, and the pad-pad of stockinged feet on the wood floor. The seconds stood with drawn swords in their places; little Galliano, still holding his buttoned foil, sat in the window seat and watched with quick eager eyes. Several times he frowned; once he nodded in swift approbation.

It was hard fighting, for one man had unbearable insults to avenge, and the other’s whole mind and will were bent on disabling his adversary. Very soon it was clear to see which was the better man. Rensley’s thrusts were savage indeed, and his attack full of fire, but his passes went wide, and more than once it seemed to the onlookers that Sir Anthony held him at his mercy. The big man, who was yet so curiously light on his feet, was playing with Rensley, and slowly the men standing by realized that he was making for just one spot, and would be satisfied with no other.

The end came quickly. Rensley saw an opening, and lunged forward. There was a scurry of blades, a lightning thrust, and Rensley went staggering back, with a hand caught to his right arm.

The seconds sprang in; Galliano clapped delighted hands; Sir Anthony stood back, and wiped his wet sword. A red stain was spreading over Mr. Rensley’s shirt, and his right arm hung useless.

Galliano skipped into the middle of the room. “Bravo, bravo!” he exclaimed. “I taught you zat pass! I, Girolamo Galliano!”

“Curb your enthusiasm, my friend,” Sir Anthony advised him.

Galliano tossed up his arms. “Ensusiasm! Bah, it was bad, bad⁠—all of it! You English you do not understand ze art! But just once or twice zere was a pass I might myself have make! Do not flatter yourself! You cannot fence: not even you, Saire Anthony!”