He breathed again, and straightened himself, too, from the arrested attitude of his last lunge.

Rage welled up from his black soul; a crimson flood swept into his pallid cheeks; his eyes rolled and blazed with the fury of the mad.
Mr.Caryll moved away.

In that quiet voice of his: "Take up your sword," he said to the vanquished, over his shoulder.
Wharton and Gascoigne moved towards him, without words to express the amazement that still held Rotherby glared an instant longer without moving.

Then, doing as Mr.Caryll had bidden him, he stooped to recover his blade.

A moment he held it, looking after his departing adversary; then with swift, silent stealth he sprang to follow.