of others whose nearness
would but serve to disturb it.

John Oxon had fought duels before, through women who were but his
despised playthings, through braggadocio, through drunken folly,
through vanity and spite--but never as he fought this night on the
broad heath, below the paling stars. This man he hated, this man he
would have killed by any thrust he knew, if the devil had helped him.
There is no hatred, to a mind like his, such as is wakened by the sight
of another's gifts and triumphs--all the more horrible is it if they
are borne with nobleness. To have lost all--to see another possess with
dignity that thing one has squandered! And for this frenzy there was
more than one cause. Clo Wildairs! He could have cursed aloud. My Lady
Dunstanwolde! He could have raved like a madman. She! And a Duke
here--this Duke would shut his mouth and give him a lesson. He lunged
forward and struck wildly; my lord Duke parried his point as if he
played with the toy of a child, and in the clear starlight his face
looked a beautiful mask, and did not change howsoever furious his
opponent's onslaught, or howsoever wondrous his own play. For wondrous
it was, and before they had been engaged five minutes John Oxon was a
maddened creature, driven so, not only by his own fury, but by seeing a
certain thing--which was that this man could kill him if he would, but
would not. When he had lost his wits and made his senseless lunge, his
Grace had but parried when he might have driven his point home; he did
this again and again while their swords clashed and darted. The stamp
of their feet sounded dull and heavy on the moor, and John Oxon's
breath came short and hissing. As he grew more wild the other grew more
cool and steady, and made a play which Sir John could have shrieked out
at seeing. What was the man doing? 'Twas as if he would show him where
he could strike and did not deign to. He felt his devil's touch in a
dozen places, and not one scratch. There he might have laid open his
face from brow to chin! Why did he touch him here, there, at one point
and another, and deal no wound? Gods! 'twas fighting not with a human
thing but with a devil! 'Twas like fighting in a Roman arena, to be
played with as a sport until human strength could bear no more; 'twas
as men used to fight together hundreds of years ago. His breath grew
short, his panting fiercer, the sweat poured down him, his throat was
dry, and he could feel no more the fresh stirrin