in compliment of his slender though full and manly form.
Cool and skilful in all the games of his youth, as John Law himself had
often calmly stated, in fence he had a knowledge amounting to science, a
knowledge based upon the study of first principles. The intricacies of
the Italian school were to him an old story. With the single blade he
had never yet met his master. Indeed, the thought of successful
opposition seemed never to occur to him at all. Certainly at this
moment, angered at the impatient insolence of his adversary, the thought
of danger was farthest from his mind. Stronger than his brother, he
pushed the latter back with one hand, grasping as he did so the
small-sword with which the latter was provided. With one leap he sprang
from the carriage, leaving Will half dazed and limp within.

Even as he left the carriage step, he found himself confronted with an
adversary eager as himself; for at that instant Beau Wilson was
hastening from his coach. Vain, weak and pompous in a way, yet lacking
not in a certain personal valor, Beau Wilson stopped not for his
seconds, tarried not to catch the other's speech, but himself strode
madly onward, his point raised slightly, as though he had lost all care
and dignity and desired nothing so much as to stab his enemy as swiftly
as might be.

It would have mattered nothing now to this Highlander, this fighting
Argyll, what had been the reason animating his opponent. It was enough
that he saw a weapon bared. Too late, then, to reason with John Law,
"Beau" Law of Edinboro', "Jessamy" Law, the best blade and the coolest
head in all the schools of arms that taught him fence.

For a moment Law paused and raised his point, whether in query or in
salute the onlookers scarce could tell. Sure it was that Wilson was the
first to fall into the assault. Scarce pausing in his stride, he came on
blindly, and, raising his own point, lunged straight for his opponent's
breast. Sad enough was the fate which impelled him to do this thing.

It was over in an instant. It could not be said that there was an
actual encounter. The side step of the young Highlander was soft as that
of a panther, as quick, and yet as full of savagery. The whipping over
of his wrist, the gliding, twining, clinging of his blade against that
of his enemy was so swift that eye could scarce have followed it. The
eye of Beau Wilson was too slow to catch it or to guard. He never
stopped the _riposte_, and indeed was too