My arm's wrenched, and I can't use it." As he spoke he threw his sword at Ralph's feet; his enemy picked it up by the slight blade, and the men closed in.
This movement sent a flash of anger from their young master's eyes.
"Back," he cried hoarsely.

Then taking a step or two toward Mark, and still holding the sword by the blade, he presented the hilt to his enemy.

"Take your sword, sir," he said haughtily.

"The Darleys are gentlemen, not cowards, to take advantage of one who is down.

That is the nearest way back to Black Tor," he continued, pointing.
For a few moments Mark stood gazing at his enemy, with his face flushing to his temples; then turning haggard and pale, as a flood of mingled sensations rushed through him; shame, mortification, pride, anger against self, seemed to choke all utterance, and he could not even stir.
He felt that he wanted to be brave and manly, and apologise for his words--to thank the gallant lad before him for saving his life--to make him see that he was a gentleman--to strike him and make him fight--to do something brave--despicable--to do he did not know what--before he accepted this permission to go, but he could for the moment do nothing-- say nothing.
At last, with a hoarse gasp, he literally snatched at the sword, and glared at his enemy with a menacing look, as if he were about to thrust at him; and Ralph's hand darted to his own hilt, but with an angry gesture, he let it fall, and stood firm.
Then a cry, mingled of rage and shame, escaped from Mark; and he thrust his sword back into its sheath, and pushing Nick aside, as the man stood in his way, he hurried down the hill.
"Yah-h-ah!" growled Nick savagely, "you aren't going to let him off like that, master ?" Mark heard the words, and turned round.
"How dare you speak to me like that!" cried Ralph, glad of some one on whom to vent the anger he felt.
"Because Sir Morton, if he'd been here, would have had that young Eden tied neck and heels, and pitched into one of the cells.