Adventure Magazine Cover — page 24: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

588 phemously for an English fool, opposed his headlong attack with contemptuous yet vindictive mastery. ' For a single moment, that yet seemed, in its tension, to pass the bounds of time, as Wyatt found himself under the glare— felt rather than seen—of those sinister eyes that from the first had struck a chill to his soul, the full realization of his madness swept upon him. He was challenging to the death the world’s greatest swordsman; all his own science served but to emphasize his sense of appalling helplessness. But, even at the first meeting of blades, the mis- giving vanished. His spirit rose to exalta- tion, stimulated by the very feeling of his opponent’s superb authority. His sword seemed to be less combated than taken possession of; stimulated, too, by the low chuckle that Todescan gave. The utter scorn of it—so might a demon laugh in the dark, exulting in the power of his own soul! Upon a singular trick of the imagination, as in the flash of a vision, he was once more in the old fencing-room of Paul’s Chains, in the “Friars”—there rose the great yellow windows looking Thamesward, the paneled walls, the hacked pillars—and there, over the point of his own foiled rapier, the kindly, keen face of his revered master, of Saviolo, the mirror of chivalrous courtesy. Hark to his voice, admonitory yet en- couraging: “Eh la! point in line, figlio mio; ever in line! And ever lower than the wrist! Lower—lower, good lad! Thumb down, and up with the little finger, elbow out, nearly straight! So—and I promise thee, ne’er a blade in the world shall surprise thy ward!” As if in obedience, he swiftly fell into the well-practised expectant guard. Even as he did so, there was a jerk—it was almost like an exclamation of wonder and disappoint- ment—in the steel that pressed on his own; and Dick Wyatt was back again, fighting for his life, the Genevan cobblestones under his feet, the glimmer of the quick-match and its steady hiss—frightful menace !—warning him to haste! He gripped the ground in his soft shoes (a blessing it was he had not waited to don the great boots! ). He set his teeth. Never, for one breathing-space, did the terrible long-blade release his own. He felt it gliding, seeking to bind, fiercely caressing—the deadly spring behind a tiger’s crouch—felt the invincible unknown Adventure thrust ready against the first weakening. And that weakening was coming apace! It was all he could do to hold his opposition. As akind of spell, cast by the fingers of steel and the superhuman flexibility of his oppo- nent’s wrist, a palsy was creeping up his outstretched arm. And one twitch of re- laxation, he knew, and he was sped! Now, whether from the depth of his own need, or whether the spirit of the master were hovering over a beloved scholar in his dire extremity—who shall say?—certain it was that the very tones of Saviolo were now recalling to Wyatt’s brain a favorite axiom of the fence-school: “Chi para, busca; chi tira, tocca!’’ (He who parries, only seeketh; he who thrusts finds!) It was to the youth as if a flame had been litin his soul. Why wait in anguish to parry a coming secret thrust, when he could stiil himself strike? Up he sprang; brain and eye, wrist and nimble feet in magnificent concert. To his dying day, Dick swore that, for the instant, he saw in the dark, even to the dreadful grin on the face opposite to him. His ear, strained to the same marvel of keenness, caught the sound of a catching breath—not his own, Exultant, he thrust; out went Saviolo’s favorite botta lunga sopramano! It was on the very dart of Todescan’s stroke, which leaped out like a bolt from am- bush—but one splinter of a second too late! Todescan’s own pass: the fierce, jerky bind- ing, the incredible turn of the wrist inward, the infallible estocade that was to have driven the point irremediably under the armpit and let free the overweening soul that dared oppose him in earnest! There was a sinister grating of steel, and the edge of the menacing blade glided, harmless, by Wyatt’s side; but his own rapier, driven straight, heart-high, went home. Todescan, caught on the start of his own lunge, actu- ally ran upon the point! At any other moment, the horrible ease with which his steel traversed living flesh would have sickened Dick Wyatt, but now there was nothing but fierce leaping triumph in his blood; the great gaunt figure had stopped dead-short. A broken curse, a groan ending in a long sigh, and the Provost of Geneva fell at the feet of the bewildered London apprentice, whose bright blade was now black to within a foot of the hilt. “Master Vincent Saviolo—have thanks!” COMmiCLOoOokkS. GO