Every stroke, every thrust, gave me insight of his school, and instinctively my blade leaped forth to turn aside his point.
He was a swordsman, stronger than I, and of longer reach, yet his tricks were old, and he relied more on strength than subtlety of fence.

Our swords gleamed against each other in the glitter of the stars, both content with thrust and parry, as we circled, watchful for some opening.
Then, confident I had gauged my man, I began to drive in upon him, returning thrust for thrust, and trying a trick or two of my own.

He countered with skill, laughing and taunting me, until his jeers made me fight grimly, with fresh determination to end the affair.
"By God! you have a right pretty thrust from the shoulder," he exclaimed.
"Been out before, I take it.

But I'll show you something you never learned.

Odds, I'll call your boy's play!" "Better hold your breath, for you'll need it now," I replied shortly.
"The boy's play is over with." Step by step I began sternly to force the fighting, driving my point against him so relentlessly as to hush his speech.