He stared at me in undisguised amazement at my boldness, a grim smile on his hard, set face.

“Ay!  I have, fellow,” he finally retorted angrily, tapping his hilt.  “’Tis in this scabbard at my side.”

“Then draw it, Senor,” I exclaimed, throwing forward my long rifle menacingly.  “And may God stand with the better man.”

I have a conception that at the moment he believed he was being fronted by a crazed man, yet there was in my face an expression quickly teaching him otherwise, and, with a swift twist, he flashed his sword forth into the sunlight, standing on guard.

“Por Baco!” he growled savagely, “you must be little better than a fool to hoist that club.  It will give me pleasure to teach you better manners toward a grandee of Spain.”

“Grandee, or not,” I retorted, angered at his implied contempt, “I may teach you a trick, Senor, with that same club, never learned in your Spanish fencing-schools.”

It was swift, intense fighting from the word, he proving past-master of his weapon, yet my stiff rifle-barrel was no mean defence against his lighter blade, with a reach preventing his point touching my body, and sufficient weight to bear down the thin, murderous steel whenever the two came into contact.  It had been long practice with me, having picked up the pretty trick from a French zouave when I was a boy, so I swung the iron as if it were a single-stick; and, in truth, I know of no better fence against the stroke of a straight sword, although fencing-masters, I have heard, make light of it.  Nevertheless it was new experience to this Spaniard, and it did me good to note how it angered the fellow to be held back by such a weapon.  He made such stress to press in behind my guard that he began to pant like a man running a hard race.  Nor did I venture to strike a blow in return, for, in simple truth, this soldier kept me busier with parry and feint than any swordsman before, while he tried every trick of his trade, not a few of them strange to me.  So I bided my time, confident he must make an opening for fit return if he kept up such furious attack, and thus, with retreat and advance, hack and guard, thrust and parry, we tramped up a wide bit of ground, while there was no sound of the struggle, except our hard breathing, with now and then a fierce curse from him as his flashing steel nicked on my gun-barrel, or flew off into thin air just as he thought to send its deadly point home.

Such fighting is wearing even to seasoned nerves, and the dazzle of the sun bothered my eyes, yet he had pressed me back scarcely more than a couple of yards when his dancing blade slipped stealthily up my brown barrel, suddenly nipping the loose sleeve of my doublet.  As it pricked into the cloth, scraping the skin of my forearm, I let the fellow have the end of the muzzle full in the side.  It was not the best spot for such a thrust, nor could I give it proper force, yet I think it cracked a rib, from