Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
that this was no mere fencing bout,—no child's play, but deadly earnest. And with his mind's eye he foresaw the outcome.
Well—one can but die. At least Prince Georges should have his fill of fighting; and an Irishman who fights hopelessly fights with all the reckless rage of a rat in a corner.
So O'Rourke fought, there in the taproom of the Inn of the Winged God. He took no risks, ventured nothing of doubtful outcome. If a chance for an attack was to come, he was ready for it, his eye like a cat's alert for an opening for thrust or slashing cut. But if that was to be denied him, he had an impregnable defense, seemingly. He might retreat—and he did, thrice circling the room—but he retreated fighting. And so, fighting, he would fall when his time came.
In one thing only he surpassed the aggressor—in endurance. His outdoor life of the past few days had put him in splendid trim. He battled on, with hardly a hair displaced; whereas Monsieur le Prince pressed his advantage by main will-power, advancing with some difficulty because of the heaving of his broad chest, gasping for air, at times, like a fish out of its element—but ever advancing, ever pressing the Irishman to the utmost.
Thrice they made the circuit of the room, O'Rourke escaping a fall or collision with the tables and chairs seemingly by a sixth sense—an eye in the back of his head that warned him of obstacles that might easily have encompassed his downfall.
He was outgeneraled, too; twice he endeavored to back himself through the outer doorway, and both times the prince got between the Irishman and his sole remaining hope of escape.
And then it narrowed down to a mere contest of endurance
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