the other English officers, hearing their hard breathing and
the short, sharp gasps they uttered as some fierce thrust was made which
seemed to have gone home.

But no: giving way very slightly, in spite of the fashion in which he
was pressed by the German, Sir Robert turned every thrust aside; and had
he taken advantage of his opportunities, he could have again and again
laid the baron at his feet, but not in the way he wished, for his desire
now was to inflict such a wound as would merely place his enemy _hors de
combat_.

A murmur now arose amongst the Englishmen, for the affair was becoming
murderous on one side. But the German officers looked on stolidly, each
with his left hand resting upon the hilt of his sword, as if ready to
resent any interference with the principals in a deadly way.

There was no hope of combination there to end the encounter, and once
more Captain Murray and his friends waited for Sir Robert to terminate
the fight, as they now felt that he could at any time.

For, enraged by the way in which he was being baffled by the superior
skill of his adversary, the baron's attack was growing wild as well as
fierce; and, savagely determined to end all by a furious onslaught, he
made a series of quick feints, letting his point play about Sir Robert's
breast, and then, quick as lightning, lunged with such terrible force
that Frank uttered a faint cry. His father heard it, and though he
parried that thrust, it was so nervously that he was partly off his
guard with that which followed, the result being that a red line
suddenly sprang into sight from just above his wrist, nearly to his
elbow, and from which the blood began to flow.

A cry of "Halt!" came from Captain Murray and his friends, and this was
answered by a guttural roar from the baron, while, as the former, as
second, stepped forward to beat down the adversaries' swords, the German
officers at once drew their weapons, not to support the baron's second,
but as a menace.

It was all almost momentary, and while it went on the baron, inspired by
the sight of the blood, pressed forward, thrusting rapidly, feeling that
the day was his own.

But that strong British arm, though wounded, grasped the hilt of Sir
Robert's blade as rigidly as if it were of the same metal; and as the
baron lunged for what he intended for his final thrust, he thoroughly
achieved his object, but not exactly as he meant. His sword point was
within an inch of Sir Rober