Denzil
sprang into his path, sword in hand, and their blades crossed with a shrill
clash and rattle of steel. They fought like demons, Fareham holding Angela
behind him, sheltering her with his body, and swaying from side to side in
his sword-play with a demoniac swiftness and suppleness, his thick dark
brows knitted over eyes that flamed with a fiercer fire than flashed from
steel meeting steel. A shriek of horror from Angela marked the climax, as
Denzil fell with Fareham's sword between his ribs. There had been little of
dilettante science, or graceful play of wrist in this encounter. The men
had rushed at each other savagely, like beasts in a circus, and whatever
of science had guided Fareham's more practised hand had been employed
automatically. The spirit of the combatants was wild and fierce as the rage
that moves rival stags fighting for a mate, with bent heads and tramping
hoofs, and clash of locked antlers reverberating through the forest
stillness.
Fareham had no time to exult over his prostrate foe; Sir John and his
servants, Constable and underlings, surrounded him, and he was handcuffed
and hauled off to the coach that was to have carried him to a sinner's
paradise, before any one had looked to Denzil's wound, or discovered
whether that violent thrust below the right lung had been fatal.
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