‘Yes,’ said Mr. Dunborough.  And ‘Yes,’ Sir George said more slowly.

‘Then, now, be ready!  Prepare to fire!  One! two! th—­’

‘Stay!’ flashed Mr. Dunborough, while the word still hung in the air.  ‘You have not given us our pistols,’ he continued, with an oath.

‘What?’ cried the second, staring.

‘Man, you have not given us our pistols.’

The major was covered with confusion.  ‘God bless my soul!  I have not!’ he cried; while Lord Almeric giggled hysterically.  ’Dear me! dear me! it is very trying to be alone!’ He threw his hat and wig on the grass, and again wiped his brow, and took up the pistols.  ’Sir George?  Thank you.  Mr. Dunborough, here is yours.’  Then:  ‘Now, are you ready?  Thank you.’

He retreated to his place again.  ’Are you ready, gentlemen?  Are you quite ready?’ he repeated anxiously, amid a breathless silence.  ’One! two! three!’

Sir George’s pistol exploded at the word; the hammer of the other clicked futile in the pan.  The spectators, staring, and expecting to see one fall, saw Mr. Dunborough start and make a half turn.  Before they had time to draw any conclusion he flung his pistol a dozen paces away, and cursed his second.  ‘D——­n you, Morris!’ he cried shrilly; ’you put no powder in the pan, you hound!  But come on, sir,’ he continued, addressing Sir George, ‘I have this left.’  And rapidly changing his sword from his left hand, in which he had hitherto held it, to his right, he rushed upon his opponent with the utmost fury, as if he would bear him down by main force.

‘Stay!’ Sir George cried; and, instead of meeting him, avoided his first rush by stepping aside two paces.  ‘Stay, sir,’ he repeated; ’I owe you a shot!  Prime afresh.  Reload, sir, and—­’

But Dunborough, blind and deaf with passion, broke in on him unheeding, and as if he carried no weapon; and crying furiously, ‘Guard yourself!’ plunged his half-shortened sword at the lower part of Sir George’s body.  The spectators held their breath and winced; the assault was so sudden, so determined, that it seemed that nothing could save Sir George from a thrust thus delivered.  He did escape, however, by a bound, quick as a cat’s; but the point of Dunborough’s weapon ripped up his breeches on the hip, the hilt rapped against the bone, and the two men came together bodily.  For a moment they wrestled, and seemed to be going to fight like beasts.

Then Sir George, his left forearm under the other’s chin, flung him three paces away; and shifting his sword into his right hand—­hitherto he had been unable to change it—­he stopped Dunborough’s savage rush with the point, and beat him off and kept him off—­parrying his lunges, and doing his utmost the while to avoid dealing him a fatal wound.  Soane was so much the better swordsman—­as was immediately apparent to all the onlookers—­that he no longer feared for himself; all his fears were for his opponent, the fire and fury of whose attacks