And then I saluted Pasquini, and we were at it.  Oh, I was minded to be rarely devilish this night.  Quick and brilliant—­that was the thing.  Nor was I unmindful of that deceptive moonlight.  As with Fortini would I settle with him if he dared the time attack.  If he did not, and quickly, then I would dare it.

Despite the fret I had put him in, he was cautious.  Nevertheless I compelled the play to be rapid, and in the dim light, depending less than usual on sight and more than usual on feel, our blades were in continual touch.

Barely was the first minute of play past when I did the trick.  I feigned a slight slip of the foot, and, in the recovery, feigned loss of touch with Pasquini’s blade.  He thrust tentatively, and again I feigned, this time making a needlessly wide parry.  The consequent exposure of myself was the bait I had purposely dangled to draw him on.  And draw him on I did.  Like a flash he took advantage of what he deemed an involuntary exposure.  Straight and true was his thrust, and all his will and body were heartily in the weight of the lunge he made.  And all had been feigned on my part and I was ready for him.  Just lightly did my steel meet his as our blades slithered.  And just firmly enough and no more did my wrist twist and deflect his blade on my basket hilt.  Oh, such a slight deflection, a matter of inches, just barely sufficient to send his point past me so that it pierced a fold of my satin doublet in passing.  Of course, his body followed his rapier in the lunge, while, heart-high, right side, my rapier point met his body.  And my outstretched arm was stiff and straight as the steel into which it elongated, and behind the arm and the steel my body was braced and solid.

Heart-high, I say, my rapier entered Pasquini’s side on the right, but it did not emerge, on the left, for, well-nigh through him, it met a rib (oh, man-killing is butcher’s work!) with such a will that the forcing overbalanced him, so that he fell part backward and part sidewise to the ground.  And even as he fell, and ere he struck, with jerk and wrench I cleared my weapon of him.

De Goncourt was to him, but he waved de Goncourt to attend on me.  Not so swiftly as Fortini did Pasquini pass.  He coughed and spat, and, helped by de Villehardouin, propped his elbow under him, rested his head on hand, and coughed and spat again.

“A pleasant journey, Pasquini,” I laughed to him in my red anger.  “Pray hasten, for the grass where you lie is become suddenly wet and if you linger you will catch your death of cold.”

When I made immediately to begin with de Goncourt, Bohemond protested that I should rest a space.

“Nay,” I said.  “I have not properly warmed up.”  And to de Goncourt, “Now will we have you dance and wheeze—­Salute!”