And Rodriguez remembered all those passes and feints that he had had from his father, and which Sevastiani, a master of arms in Madrid, had taught in his father’s youth:  and some were famous and some were little known.  And all these passes, as he tried them one by one, his unknown antagonist parried.  And for a moment Rodriguez feared that Morano would see those passes in which he trusted foiled by that unknown sword, and then he reflected that Morano knew nothing of the craft of the rapier, and with more content at that thought he parried thrusts that were strange to him.  But something told Morano that in this fight the stranger was master and that along that pale-blue, moonlit, unknown sword lurked a sure death for Rodriguez.  He moved from his place of vantage and was soon lost in large shadows; while the rapiers played and blade rippled on blade with a sound as though Death were gently sharpening his scythe in the dark.  And now Rodriguez was giving ground, now his antagonist pressed him; thrusts that he believed invincible had failed; now he parried wearily and had at once to parry again; the unknown pressed on, was upon him, was scattering his weakening parries; drew back his rapier for a deadlier pass, learned in a secret school, in a hut on mountains he knew, and practised surely; and fell in a heap upon Rodriguez’ feet, struck full on the back of the head by Morano’s frying-pan.

“Most vile knave,” shouted Rodriguez as he saw Morano before him with his frying-pan in his hand, and with something of the stupid expression that you see on the face of a dog that has done some foolish thing which it thinks will delight its master.

“Master!  I am your servant,” said Morano.

“Vile, miserable knave,” replied Rodriguez.

“Master,” Morano said plaintively, “shall I see to your comforts, your food, and not to your life?”

“Silence,” thundered Rodriguez as he stooped anxiously to his antagonist, who was not unconscious but only very giddy and who now rose to his feet with the help of Rodriguez.

“Alas, senor,” said Rodriguez, “the foul knave is my servant.  He shall be flogged.  He shall be flayed.  His vile flesh shall be cut off him.  Does the hurt pain you, senor?  Sit and rest while I beat the knave, and then we will continue our meeting.”

And he ran to his kerchief on which rested his mandolin and laid it upon the dust for the stranger.

“No, no,” said he.  “My head clears again.  It is nothing.”

“But rest, senor, rest,” said Rodriguez.  “It is always well to rest before an encounter.  Rest while I punish the knave.”

And he led him to where the kerchief lay on the ground.  “Let me see the hurt, senor,” he continued.  And the stranger removed his plumed hat as Rodriguez compelled him to sit down.  He straightened out the hat as he sat, and the hurt was shown to be of no great consequence.

“The blessed Saints be praised,” Rodriguez said.  “It need not stop our encounter.  But rest awhile, senor.”