His blade, coming foible on forte against Mr.Caryll's, was suddenly enveloped.
It was as if a tentacle had been thrust out to seize it.

For the barest fraction of a second was it held so by Mr.Caryll's sword; then, easily but irresistibly, it was lifted out of Rotherby's hand, and dropped on the turf a half-yard or so from his lordship's stockinged feet.
A cold sweat of terror broke upon him.

He caught his breath with a half-shuddering sob of fear, his eyes dilating wildly--for Mr.Caryll's point was coming straight as an arrow at his throat.

On it came and on, until it was within perhaps three inches of the flesh.
There it was suddenly arrested, and for a long moment it was held there poised, death itself, menacing and imminent.

And Lord Rotherby, not daring to move, rooted where he stood, looked with fascinated eyes along that shimmering blade into two gleaming eyes behind it that seemed to watch him with a solemnity that was grim to the point of mockery.
Time and the world stood still, or were annihilated in that moment for the man who waited.
High in the blue overhead a lark was pouring out its song; but his lordship heard it not.