Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
point sank deep into the panel, and the blade snapped half-way down to the hilt.
Agile, and merciless as a cat, the duke was again instantly upon his feet. O'Rourke, defenseless save for the hilt in his hand, leaped backwards, a dozen feet, in the twinkling of an eyelash. The duke hurled himself after him, like an avenging whirlwind, slipped upon the polished flooring, and sprawled headlong.
His saber blade fell at O'Rourke's feet, and the adventurer promptly put one heel upon it while the other, without compunction, he brought down heavily upon the duke's fingers. The man swore with the pain and relaxed his hold upon the hilt; O'Rourke stooped and tore the sword from him.
Disarmed, the duke rose, his death clear to his eyes; the polish of the nineteenth century dropped from him, like a mummer's cloak; he stood, raging like a rat in a corner, showing himself for what he was—a primitive savage, raw, blood-thirsty, unprincipled, untouched by the monitions of a conscience. Fear was in his eyes, for he expected his just due—death; but rage was in his heart—rage, because he had fought and lost and must pay the penalty.
He threw his arms wide with a passionate gesture, inviting the down sweep of the saber, bowing his head to its cleaving stroke. And when that did not come, he raised his gaze again to the face of the adventurer, puzzled, wondering; and saw O'Rourke standing at ease, regarding him with pity; but without hatred. He recognized that the Irishman was of a fiber finer than his own, that he could spare the life even of an antagonist who had but the moment gone tried to take his own by cowardly assault. And the knowledge was insupportable; it was intolerable to contemplate an existence
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