The Free Lances Part 4

After a few thrusts, Santander seemed surprised at his fruitless efforts. Then over his face came a look more like fear. It was the first time in his duelling experience he had been so baffled, for it was his first encounter with an adversary who could keep a _straight arm_.

But Florence Kearney had been taught _tierce_ as well as _carte_, and knew how to practise it. For a time he was prevented from trying it by the other's impetuous and incessant thrusting, which kept him continuously at guard, but as the sword-play proceeded, he began to discover the weak points of his antagonist, and, with a well-directed thrust, at length sent his blade through the Creole's outstretched arm, impaling it from wrist to elbow.

An ill-suppressed cry of triumph escaped from the Kentuckian's lips, while with eyes directed towards the other second, he seemed to ask--

"Are you satisfied?"

Then the question was formally put.

Duperon looked in the face of his princ.i.p.al, though without much show of interrogating him. It seemed as if he already divined what the answer would be.

"_A la mort_!" cried the Creole, with a deadly emphasis and bitter determination in his dark sinister eyes.

"To the death be it!" was the response of the Irishman, not so calmly, and now for the first time showing anger. Nor strange he should, since he now knew he had crossed swords with a man determined on taking his life.

There was a second or two's pause, of which Santander availed himself, hastily whipping a handkerchief round his wounded arm--a permission not strictly according to the code, but tacitly granted by his gallant antagonist.

When the two again closed and came to guard, the seconds were no longer by their sides. At the words "_a la mort_" they had withdrawn--each to the rear of his princ.i.p.al--the mode of action in a duel to the death.

Their _role_ henceforth was simply to look on, with no right of interference, unless either of the princ.i.p.als should attempt foul play.

This, however, could not well occur. By the phrase "_a la mort_" is conveyed a peculiar meaning, well-known to the Orleans duellist. When spoken, it is no longer a question of sword-skill, or who draws first blood; but a challenge giving free licence to kill--whichever can.

In the present affair it was followed by silence more profound and more intense than ever, while the attention of the spectators, now including the seconds, seemed to redouble itself.

The only sound heard was a whistling of wings. The fog had drifted away, and several large birds were seen circling in the air above, looking down with stretched necks, as if they, too, felt interested in the spectacle pa.s.sing underneath. No doubt they did; for they were vultures, and could see--whether or not they scented it--that blood was being spilled.

Once more, also, from the tree tops came the mocking laughter of the eagle; and out of the depths, through long, shadowy arcades, the mournful hootings of the great white owl--fit music for such fell strife.

Disregarding these ominous sounds--each seeming a death-warning in itself--the combatants had once more closed, again and again crossing sword-blades with a clash that frightened owl, eagle, and vulture, for an instant causing them to withhold their vocal accompaniment.

Though now on both sides the contest was carried on with increased anger, there was not much outward sign of it. On neither any rash sword-play. If they had lost temper they yet had control over their weapons; and their guards and points, though perhaps more rapidly exchanged, displayed as much skill as ever.

Again Kearney felt surprised at the repeated thrusts of his antagonist, which kept him all the time on the defensive, while Santander appeared equally astonished and discomfited by that far-reaching arm, straight as a yardstick, with elbow never bent. Could the Creole have but added six inches to his rapier blade, in less than ten seconds the young Irishman would have had nearly so much of it pa.s.sed between his ribs.

Twice its point touched, slightly scratching the skin upon his breast, and drawing blood.

For quite twenty minutes the sanguinary strife continued without any marked advantage to either. It was a spectacle somewhat painful to behold, the combatants themselves being a sight to look upon. Kearney's s.h.i.+rt of finest white linen showed like a butcher's; his sleeves encrimsoned; his hands, too, grasping his rapier hilt, the same--not with his own blood, but that of his adversary, which had run back along the blade; his face was spotted by the drops dashed over it from the whirling wands of steel.

Gory, too, was the face of Santander; but gashed as well. Bending forward to put in a point, the Creole had given his antagonist a chance, resulting to himself in a punctured cheek, the scar of which would stay there for life.

It was this brought the combat to an end; or, at all events, to its concluding stroke. Santander, vain of his personal appearance, on feeling his cheek laid open, suddenly lost command of himself, and with a fierce oath rushed at his adversary, regardless of the consequences.

He succeeded in making a thrust, though not the one he intended. For having aimed at Kearney's heart, missing it, his blade pa.s.sed through the buckle of the young Irishman's braces, where in an instant it was entangled.

Only for half a second; but this was all the skilled swordsman required.

Now, first since the fight began, his elbow was seen to bend. This to obtain room for a thrust, which was sent, to all appearance, home to his adversary's heart.

Every one on the ground expected to see Santander fall; for by the force of the blow and direction Kearney's blade should have pa.s.sed through his body, splitting the heart in twain. Instead, the point did not appear to penetrate even an inch! As it touched, there came a sound like the c.h.i.n.king of coin in a purse, with simultaneously the snap of a breaking blade, and the young Irishman was seen standing as in a trance of astonishment, in his hand but the half of a sword, the other half gleaming amongst the gra.s.s at his feet.

It seemed a mischance, fatal to Florence Kearney, and only the veriest dastard would have taken advantage of it. But this Santander was, and once more drawing back, and bringing his blade to _tierce_, he was rus.h.i.+ng on his now defenceless antagonist, when Crittenden called "Foul play!" at the same time springing forward to prevent it.

His interference, however, would have been too late, and in another instant the young Irishman would have been stretched lifeless along the sward, but for a second individual who had watched the foul play--one who had been suspecting it all along. The sword of Santander seen flying off, as if struck out of his grasp, and his arm dropping by his side, with blood pouring from the tips of his fingers, were all nearly simultaneous incidents, as also the crack of a rifle and a cloud of blue smoke suddenly spurting up over one of the carriages, and half-concealing the colossal figure of Cris Rock, still seated on the box. Out of that cloud came a cry in the enraged voice of the Texan, with words which made all plain--

"Ye darned Creole cuss! Take that for a treetur an' a cowart! Strip the skunk! He's got sumthin' steely under his s.h.i.+rt; I heerd the c.h.i.n.k o' it."

Saying which he bounded down from the box, sprang over the water-ditch, and rushed on towards the spot occupied by the combatants.

In a dozen strides he was in their midst, and before either of the two seconds, equally astonished, could interfere, he had caught Santander by the throat, and tore open the breast of his s.h.i.+rt!

Underneath was then seen another s.h.i.+rt, not flannel, nor yet linen or cotton, but link-and-chain steel!

CHAPTER EIGHT.

A DISGRACED DUELLIST.

Impossible to describe the scene which followed, or the expression upon the faces of those men who stood beside Santander. The Texan, strong as he was big, still kept hold of him, though now at arm's length; in his grasp retaining the grown man with as much apparent ease as though it were but a child. And there, sure enough, under the torn flannel s.h.i.+rt, all could see a doublet of chain armour, impenetrable to sword's point as plate of solid steel.

Explanation this of why Carlos Santander was so ready to take the field in a duel, and had twice left his antagonist lifeless upon it. It explained also why, when leaping across the water-ditch, he had dropped so heavily upon the farther bank. Weighted as he was, no wonder.

By this time the two doctors, with the pair of hackney-drivers, seeing that something had turned up out of the common course, parting from the carriages, had also come upon the ground; the jarveys, in sympathy with Cris Rock, crying, "Shame!" In the Crescent City even a cabman has something of chivalry in his nature--the surroundings teach and invite it--and now the detected scoundrel seemed without a single friend. For he--hitherto acting as such, seeing the imposture, which had been alike practised on himself, stepped up to his princ.i.p.al, and looking him scornfully in the face, hissed out the word "_Lache_!"

Then turning to Kearney and Crittenden he added--

"Let that be my apology to you, gentlemen. If you're not satisfied with it, I'm willing and ready to take his place--with either of you."

"It's perfectly satisfactory, monsieur," frankly responded the Kentuckian, "so far as I'm concerned. And I think I may say as much for Captain Kearney."

"Indeed, yes," a.s.sented the Irishman, adding: "We absolve you, sir, from all blame. It's evident you knew nothing of that s.h.i.+ning panoply till now;" as he spoke, pointing to the steel s.h.i.+rt.

The French-Creole haughtily, but courteously, bowed thanks. Then, facing once more to Santander, and repeating the "_Lache_" strode silently away from the ground.

They had all mistaken the character of the individual, who, despite a somewhat forbidding face, was evidently a man of honour, as he had proved himself.

"What d'ye weesh me to do wi' him?" interrogated the Texan, still keeping Santander in firm clutch. "Shed we shoot him or hang him?"

"Hang!" simultaneously shouted the two hackney-drivers, who seemed as bitter against the disgraced duellist as if he had "bilked" them of a fare.

"So I say, too," solemnly p.r.o.nounced the Texan; "shootin's too good for the like o' him; a man capable o' sech a cowardly, murderous trick desarves to die the death o' a dog."

Then, with an interrogating look at Crittenden, he added: "Which is't to be, lootenant?"

"Neither, Cris," answered the Kentuckian. "If I mistake not, the _gentleman_ has had enough punishment without either. If he's got so much as a spark of shame or conscience--"

"Conshence!" exclaimed Rock, interrupting. "Sech a skunk don't know the meanin' o' the word. Darn ye!" he continued, turning upon his prisoner, and shaking him till the links in the steel s.h.i.+rt c.h.i.n.ked, "I feel as if I ked drive the blade o' my bowie inter ye through them steel fixin's an' all."

And, drawing his knife from its sheath, he brandished it in a menacing manner.

"Don't, Rock! Please don't!" interposed the Kentuckian, Kearney joining in the entreaty. "He's not worth anger, much less revenge. So let him go."