The
stranger, as we may call him, whipped out a claymore, and the two fought
fiercely. By Jove, it was no stage combat or French duel. They went for
each other as if they meant it. There was no stopping to take breath, nor
drawing apart after a foiled attack. Each man tried to kill the other as
speedily as possible. Three times they circled round in furious
sword-play. Then the stranger got his point home. The other, in mortal
agony, dropped his weapon, and tried with both hands to tear his
adversary's blade from his breast. He failed, and staggered back, the
victor still shoving the claymore through his opponent's body. Then, and
not until then, I saw the face of the man who was wounded, probably
killed. It was my cousin, Alan Hume-Fraser."
David Hume stopped again. His bronzed face was pale now. With his left
hand he swept huge drops of perspiration from his brow. But his class
demands coolness in the most desperate moments. He actually struck a match
and relighted his cigarette.
"I suppose you occasionally have a nightmare after an indigestible supper,
Mr. Brett," he went on, "and have experienced a peculiar sensation of dumb
palsy in the presence of some unknown but terrifying danger? Well, such
was my exact state at that moment. Alan fell, apparently lifeless. The
stranger kissed his blood-stained sword, which required a strong tug
before he could disengage it, rattled it back into the scabbard, rejoined
his companion, and the two rode off, without once looking back.
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