He laughed, too, but said nothing, considering it as a matter of course, and stepping into position he stood before Veronica with lowered foil.  She raised hers, saluted him, and then Gianluca, as though they were to fence a bout for a prize.  Taquisara did the same.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, in surprise, as both were about to fall into guard.  “Are you left-handed?”

“Yes—­did you never notice it?” She laughed again, as her foil played upon his for a second.  “Now then!” she cried.

Taquisara was not an exceptionally good fencer, and had spent very little time in the study of the art.  He was bold, quick, and somewhat reckless, and in two or three slight affairs in which, like most men of his society in the south, he had been unavoidably engaged, he had wounded his adversaries rather by surprise and indifference to his own safety, than by any superior skill.  He had expected that Veronica would make a few conventional passes and parries, and grow tired of the sport in a few minutes.  To his astonishment, he saw in a moment that she could really fence fairly well, while the fact of being left-handed gave her a great advantage, even against an otherwise superior adversary.  He had of course intended and expected only to defend himself without ever really attacking, as men generally do when they fence with women.  But he was mistaken in supposing that this was what Veronica wanted.

She tried his wrist once or twice and played a little, feeling her way.  Then there was a quick flash, a disengagement, a feint, a lunge that was like a man’s, and as her long left arm shot out like lightning, her foil bent nearly double, with the button full on his breast.  She stepped back, and he heard her short laugh again, followed by Gianluca’s, and he laughed, too, somewhat disconcerted.

“I took you by surprise,” she said.  “You had better put on a jacket—­it is just as well.”

“Oh no—­but you can really fence!  I had no idea.  I shall be more careful.  Try again!”

They engaged once more, and Taquisara was cautious.  His defence did not compare with his attack, and he could not take the offensive in earnest.  He parried her quick thrusts with some difficulty, and presently she touched him on the arm.

“Why do you not attack me?” she asked impatiently.  “You need not be afraid—­I can defend myself pretty well.”

He did not altogether like to lunge as though he were fencing with a man, and his hesitation gave her a still greater advantage.  She felt an unaccountable delight in attacking him furiously, and in her excitement she uttered sharp little cries when she touched him, as she did more than once.  She felt that she had never fenced so well in her life, and she was glad that she should do better against him than against Bianca or her fencing-master.  There was a strange delight in it.  He, on his part, did his best at defence, but he could not bring himself to a real attack.  He tried to disarm her, by sheer strength, but he failed utterly.  Her wrist was more supple than the steel foil itself, and she was left-handed.