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 the way the Spaniard drew back, and the sudden pallor of his face; indeed, so ghastly white he got, I thought him done for, and lowered my barrel carelessly.