![]() “As magistrate I command it! Sir physician, come and look to Sir George’s wound. “Put up your steel, you young cockerels!” snapped Sir Rupert. “The matter between us can be settled only by death!” “Aye, stand aside, Sir Rupert,” said the victor, quietly, but his hot blue eyes were sparks of steel. “A wound - a scratch! It decides nothing! ’Tis no matter. “Stand aside!” cried he furiously and with an oath. The black-eyed man with an impatient gesture put behind him his left arm from which, from a narrow wound, blood was streaming. “Have done! The matter is decided and honor satisfied! Sir George is wounded!” ![]() “Hold, gentlemen!” The swords were struck up and a portly man stood between the combatants, jeweled rapier in one hand, cocked hat in the other. The blue-eyed youth parried with a half turn of a steely wrist and his counter stroke was like the flash of summer lightning. He of the black eyes feinted and thrust as quick as a snake strikes. Breath hissed between close locked teeth feet scruffed the sward, advancing, retreating. Across those blades hot eyes burned into each other - hard inky black eyes and volcanic blue ones. The blades crossed with a sharp clash of venomous steel blue sparks showered. Death is a blue flame dancing over corpses.
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