The two had drawn rein, facing each other; and for that mere moment Roy felt as if his nerve was gone.  A glance at the crowded tent, the gleam of a blue-green figure leaning forward....

Then Lance’s voice, low and peremptory, ‘Come on.’

In the same breath he himself came on, with formidable elan.  Their sticks rattled sharply.  Roy parried a high slicing stroke—­only just in time.

Thank God, he was himself again; so much himself that he was beset by a sneaking desire to let Lance win.  It was his weakness in games, just when the goal seemed in sight.  Tara used to scold him fiercely....

But there was Miss Arden, the rosebud....

And suddenly, startlingly, Roy became aware that for Lance this was no game.  He was fencing like a man inspired.  There was more than mere skill in his feints and shrewd blows; more in it than a feather.

Two cuts over the arm and shoulder, a good deal sharper than need be, fairly roused Roy.  Next moment they were literally fighting, at closest range, for all they were worth, to the accompaniment of yell on yell, cheer on cheer....

As the issue hung doubtful and excitement intensified, it became clear that Lance was losing his temper.  Roy, hurt and angry, tried to keep cool.  Against an antagonist so skilled and relentless, it was his only chance.  Their names were shouted. "Shahbash[26] Sinkin, Sahib," from the men of Roy’s old squadron; and from Lance’s men, "Desmin Sahib ki jai!"[27]

Twice Roy’s slicing stroke almost came off—­almost, not quite.  The maddening little feather still held its own; and Lance, by way of rejoinder, caught him a blow on his mask that made his head ache for an hour after.

Up went his arm to return the blow with interest.  Lance, instead of parrying, lunged—­and the head of a yellow bud dropped in the dust.

At that Roy saw red.  His lifted hand shook visibly; and with the moment’s loss of control went his last hope of victory....

Next instant his feather had joined the rosebud; the crowd were roaring themselves hoarse; and Roy was riding off the ground—­shorn of plume and favour, furiously disappointed, and feeling a good deal more bruised about the arms and shoulders than anything on earth would have induced him to admit.

Of course he ought to go up and congratulate Lance; but just then it seemed a physical impossibility.  Mercifully he was surrounded and borne off to the refreshment tent; sped on his way by a rousing ovation as he passed the shamianah.

Roy, following after, had his full share of praise, and a salvo of applause from the main tent.

Saluting and looking round, he dared not meet Miss Arden’s eye.  Had he won, she might have owned him.  As it was, he had better keep his distance.  But the glimpse he got of her face startled him.  It looked curiously white and strained.  His own imagination, perhaps.  It was only a flash.  But it haunted him.  He felt responsible.  She had been so radiantly sure....