The Master, with equal skill, and much greater
composure, remained chiefly on the defensive, and even declined to avail
himself of one or two advantages afforded him by the eagerness of his
adversary. At length, in a desperate lunge, which he followed with
an attempt to close, Bucklaw's foot slipped, and he fell on the short
grassy turf on which they were fighting. "Take your life, sir," said the
Master of Ravenswood, "and mend it if you can."
"It would be but a cobbled piece of work, I fear," said Bucklaw, rising
slowly and gathering up his sword, much less disconcerted with the issue
of the combat than could have been expected from the impetuosity of
his temper. "I thank you for my life, Master," he pursued. "There is my
hand; I bear no ill-will to you, either for my bad luck or your better
swordsmanship."
The Master looked steadily at him for an instant, then extended his hand
to him. "Bucklaw," he said, "you are a generous fellow, and I have done
you wrong. I heartily ask your pardon for the expression which offended
you; it was hastily and incautiously uttered, and I am convinced it is
totally misapplied.
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