es, as he tried them one by one, his unknown
antagonist parried. And for a moment Rodriguez feared that Morano would
see those passes in which he trusted foiled by that unknown sword, and
then he reflected that Morano knew nothing of the craft of the rapier,
and with more content at that thought he parried thrusts that were
strange to him. But something told Morano that in this fight the
stranger was master and that along that pale-blue, moonlit, unknown
sword lurked a sure death for Rodriguez. He moved from his place of
vantage and was soon lost in large shadows; while the rapiers played
and blade rippled on blade with a sound as though Death were gently
sharpening his scythe in the dark. And now Rodriguez was giving ground,
now his antagonist pressed him; thrusts that he believed invincible had
failed; now he parried wearily and had at once to parry again; the
unknown pressed on, was upon him, was scattering his weakening parries;
drew back his rapier for a deadlier pass, learned in a secret school,
in a hut on mountains he knew, and practised surely; and fell in a heap
upon Rodriguez' feet, struck full on the back of the head by Morano's
frying-pan.

"Most vile knave," shouted Rodriguez as he saw Morano before him with
his frying-pan in his hand, and with something of the stupid expression
that you see on the face of a dog that has done some foolish thing
which it thinks will delight its master.

"Master! I am your servant," said Morano.

"Vile, miserable knave," replied Rodriguez.

"Master," Morano said plaintively, "shall I see to your comforts, your
food, and not to your life?"

"Silence," thundered Rodriguez as he stooped anxiously to his
antagonist, who was not unconscious but only very giddy and who now
rose to his feet with the help of Rodriguez.

"Alas, senor," said Rodriguez, "the foul knave is my servant. He shall
be flogged. He shall be flayed. His vile flesh shall be cut off him.
Does the hurt pain you, senor? Sit and rest while I beat the knave, and
then we will continue our meeting."

And he ran to his kerchief on which rested his mandolin and laid it
upon the dust for the stranger.

"No, no," said he. "My head clears again. It is nothing."

"But rest, senor, rest," said Rodriguez. "It is always well to rest
before an encounter. Rest while I punish the knave."

And he led him to where the kerchief lay on the ground. "Let me see the
hurt, senor," he continued. And the stranger removed his plu