"It's damned good blood, but--but it won't do, you see." "I'm glad it was no worse," said Dyck, not touching the bloody hand.
"It's a clean thrust, and you'll be better from it soon.

These great men"-- he smiled towards the surgeons--"will soon put you right.

I got my chance with the stroke, and took it, because I knew if I didn't you'd have me presently." "You'll have a great reputation in Dublin town now, and you'll deserve it," Mallow added adroitly, the great paleness of his features, however, made ghastly by the hatred in his eyes.
Dyck did not see this look, but he felt a note of malice--a distant note--in Mallow's voice.

He saw that what Mallow had said was fresh evidence of the man's arrogant character.

It did not offend him, however, for he was victor, and could enter the Breakneck Club or Dublin society with a tranquil eye.
Again Mallow's voice was heard.
"I'd have seen you damned to hell, Calhoun, before I'd have apologized at the Breakneck Club; but after a fight with one of the best swordsmen in Ireland I've learned a lot, and I'll apologize now--completely." The surgeon had bound up the slight wound in Dyck's shoulder, had stopped the bleeding, and was now helping him on with his coat.