Twice we circled, striking, countering, fighting, our blades glittering ominously in the starlight, our breathing labored with the fierceness of the fighting.
Both our swords tasted blood, he slicing my forearm, I piercing his shoulder, yet neither wound sufficed to bring any cessation of effort.

We were mad now with the fever of it, and struggling to kill, panting fiercely, our faces flushed, the perspiration dripping from our bodies, our swords darting swiftly back and forth.

He was my match, and more, and, had we been permitted to go on to the end, would have worn me down by sheer strength.

Suddenly, above the clash of steel, came the sound of voices; our blades were struck up, and the dark forms of men pressed in between us.
"Stop it, you hotheads!" some one commanded gruffly.

"Hold your man, Tolston, until I get at the reason for this fighting.