De Goncourt’s heart was not in the work.  It was patent that he fought under the compulsion of command.  His play was old-fashioned, as any middle-aged man’s is apt to be, but he was not an indifferent swordsman.  He was cool, determined, dogged.  But he was not brilliant, and he was oppressed with foreknowledge of defeat.  A score of times, by quick and brilliant, he was mine.  But I refrained.  I have said that I was devilish-minded.  Indeed I was.  I wore him down.  I backed him away from the moon so that he could see little of me because I fought in my own shadow.  And while I wore him down until he began to wheeze as I had predicted, Pasquini, head on hand and watching, coughed and spat out his life.

“Now, de Goncourt,” I announced finally.  “You see I have you quite helpless.  You are mine in any of a dozen ways.  Be ready, brace yourself, for this is the way I will.”

And, so saying, I merely went from carte to tierce, and as he recovered wildly and parried widely I returned to carte, took the opening, and drove home heart-high and through and through.  And at sight of the conclusion Pasquini let go his hold on life, buried his face in the grass, quivered a moment, and lay still.

“Your master will be four servants short this night,” I assured de Villehardouin, in the moment just ere we engaged.

And such an engagement!  The boy was ridiculous.  In what bucolic school of fence he had been taught was beyond imagining.  He was downright clownish.  “Short work and simple” was my judgment, while his red hair seemed a-bristle with very rage and while he pressed me like a madman.

Alas!  It was his clownishness that undid me.  When I had played with him and laughed at him for a handful of seconds for the clumsy boor he was, he became so angered that he forgot the worse than little fence he knew.  With an arm-wide sweep of his rapier, as though it bore heft and a cutting edge, he whistled it through the air and rapped it down on my crown.  I was in amaze.  Never had so absurd a thing happened to me.  He was wide open, and I could have run him through forthright.  But, as I said, I was in amaze, and the next I knew was the pang of the entering steel as this clumsy provincial ran me through and charged forward, bull-like, till his hilt bruised my side and I was borne backward.

As I fell I could see the concern on the faces of Lanfranc and Bohemond and the glut of satisfaction in the face of de Villehardouin as he pressed me.

I was falling, but I never reached the grass.  Came a blurr of flashing lights, a thunder in my ears, a darkness, a glimmering of dim light slowly dawning, a wrenching, racking pain beyond all describing, and then I heard the voice of one who said: 

“I can’t feel anything.”

I knew the voice.  It was Warden Atherton’s.  And I knew myself for Darrell Standing, just returned across the centuries to the jacket hell of San Quentin.  And I knew the touch of finger-tips on my neck was Warden Atherton’s.  And I knew the finger-tips that displaced his were Doctor Jackson’s.  And it was Doctor Jackson’s voice that said: