ind in
Loge so much finesse. But with a second slight wound Loge began to give
ground.

With Cleggett a bout with the foils had always been a duel. It has
been indicated, we believe, that he was of a romantic disposition and
much given to daydreaming; his imagination had thus made every set-to
in the fencing room a veritable mortal combat to him. Therefore, this
was not his first duel; he had fought hundreds of them. And he fought
always on a settled plan, adapting it, of course, to the idiosyncrasies
of his adversary. It was his custom to vary the system of his attack
frequently in the most disconcerting manner, at the same time steadily
increasing the pace at which he fought. And when Loge began to give
ground and breathe a little harder, Cleggett, far from taking advantage
of his opponent's growing distress to rest himself, as a less
distinguished swordsman might have done, redoubled the vigor of his
assault. Cleggett knew that sooner or later a winded man makes a
fault. The lungs labor and fail to give the blood all the oxygen it
needs. The circulation suffers. Nerves and muscles are no longer the
perfect servants of the brain; for a fraction of a second the sword
deviates from the proper line.

It was for this that Cleggett waited, pressing Loge closer and closer,
alert for the instant when Loge would fence wide; waxing as the other
waned; menacing eyes, throat, and heart with a point that leaped and
dazzled; and at the same time inclosing himself within a rampart of
steel which Loge found it more and more hopeless to attempt to
penetrate. It was as if Cleggett's blade were an extension of his will;
he and his sword were not two things, but one. The metal in his hand
was no longer merely a whip of steel; it was a thing that lived with
his own life. His pulse beat in it. It was a part of him. His
nervous force permeated it and animated it; it was his thought turned
to tempered metal, and it was with the rapidity, directness and
subtlety of thought that his sword responded to his mind.

"Come!" said Cleggett, as Loge broke ground, scarcely aware that he
spoke aloud. "At this rate we shall be at home thrusts soon!"

Loge must have thought so too; a shade passed over his face, his upper
lip lifted haggardly. Perhaps even that iron nature was beginning to
feel at last something of the dull sickness which is the fear of death.
He retreated continually, and Cleggett was smitten with the fancy to
force hi