It was nervous, tingling work, for as surely as I sensed his intention of briefness, just as surely had he sensed mine.  I doubt that I could have done the trick had it been broad day instead of moonlight.  The dim light aided me.  Also was I aided by divining, the moment in advance, what he had in mind.  It was the time attack, a common but perilous trick that every novice knows, that has laid on his back many a good man who attempted it, and that is so fraught with danger to the perpetrator that swordsmen are not enamoured of it.

We had been at work barely a minute, when I knew under all his darting, flashing show of offence that Fortini meditated this very time attack.  He desired of me a thrust and lunge, not that he might parry it but that he might time it and deflect it by the customary slight turn of the wrist, his rapier point directed to meet me as my body followed in the lunge.  A ticklish thing—­ay, a ticklish thing in the best of light.  Did he deflect a fraction of a second too early, I should be warned and saved.  Did he deflect a fraction of a second too late, my thrust would go home to him.

“Quick and brilliant is it?” was my thought.  “Very well, my Italian friend, quick and brilliant shall it be, and especially shall it be quick.”

In a way, it was time attack against time attack, but I would fool him on the time by being over-quick.  And I was quick.  As I said, we had been at work scarcely a minute when it happened.  Quick?  That thrust and lunge of mine were one.  A snap of action it was, an explosion, an instantaneousness.  I swear my thrust and lunge were a fraction of a second quicker than any man is supposed to thrust and lunge.  I won the fraction of a second.  By that fraction of a second too late Fortini attempted to deflect my blade and impale me on his.  But it was his blade that was deflected.  It flashed past my breast, and I was in—­inside his weapon, which extended full length in the empty air behind me—­and my blade was inside of him, and through him, heart-high, from right side of him to left side of him and outside of him beyond.

It is a strange thing to do, to spit a live man on a length of steel.  I sit here in my cell, and cease from writing a space, while I consider the matter.  And I have considered it often, that moonlight night in France of long ago, when I taught the Italian hound quick and brilliant.  It was so easy a thing, that perforation of a torso.  One would have expected more resistance.  There would have been resistance had my rapier point touched bone.  As it was, it encountered only the softness of flesh.  Still it perforated so easily.  I have the sensation of it now, in my hand, my brain, as I write.  A woman’s hat-pin could go through a plum pudding not more easily than did my blade go through the Italian.  Oh, there was nothing amazing about it at the time to Guillaume de Sainte-Maure, but amazing it is to me, Darrell Standing, as I recollect and ponder it across the centuries.  It is easy, most easy, to kill a strong, live, breathing man with so crude a weapon as a piece of steel.  Why, men are like soft-shell crabs, so tender, frail, and vulnerable are they.