“A very bad bargain, sir, for those who pay the said two hundred for the rascal; but what if he kills Cary?”

“Worse still.  Cary must not be killed.  I am very angry with him, but he is too good a lad to be lost; and his father would never forgive us.  We must strike up their swords at the first scratch.”

“It will make them very mad, sir.”

“Hang them! let them fight us then, if they don’t like our counsel.  It must be, Arthur.”

“Be sure, sir,” said Arthur, “that whatsoever you shall command I shall perform.  It is only too great an honor to a young man as I am to find myself in the same duel with your worship, and to have the advantage of your wisdom and experience.”

Sir Richard smiles, and says—­“Now, gentlemen! are you ready?”

The Spaniard pulls out a little crucifix, and kisses it devoutly, smiting on his breast; crosses himself two or three times, and says—­“Most willingly, senor.”

Cary kisses no crucifix, but says a prayer nevertheless.

Cloaks and doublets are tossed off, the men placed, the rapiers measured hilt and point; Sir Richard and St. Leger place themselves right and left of the combatants, facing each other, the points of their drawn swords on the sand.  Cary and the Spaniard stand for a moment quite upright, their sword-arms stretched straight before them, holding the long rapier horizontally, the left hand clutching the dagger close to their breasts.  So they stand eye to eye, with clenched teeth and pale crushed lips, while men might count a score; St. Leger can hear the beating of his own heart; Sir Richard is praying inwardly that no life may be lost.  Suddenly there is a quick turn of Cary’s wrist and a leap forward.  The Spaniard’s dagger flashes, and the rapier is turned aside; Cary springs six feet back as the Spaniard rushes on him in turn.  Parry, thrust, parry—­the steel rattles, the sparks fly, the men breathe fierce and loud; the devil’s game is begun in earnest.

Five minutes have the two had instant death a short six inches off from those wild sinful hearts of theirs, and not a scratch has been given.  Yes! the Spaniard’s rapier passes under Cary’s left arm; he bleeds.

“A hit! a hit!  Strike up, Atty!” and the swords are struck up instantly.

Cary, nettled by the smart, tries to close with his foe, but the seconds cross their swords before him.

“It is enough, gentlemen.  Don Guzman’s honor is satisfied!”

“But not my revenge, senor,” says the Spaniard, with a frown.  “This duel is a l’outrance, on my part; and, I believe, on Mr. Cary’s also.”

“By heaven, it is!” says Will, trying to push past.  “Let me go, Arthur St. Leger; one of us must down.  Let me go, I say!”

“If you stir, Mr. Cary, you have to do with Richard Grenville!” thunders the lion voice.  “I am angry enough with you for having brought on this duel at all.  Don’t provoke me still further, young hot-head!”