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Updated: May 12, 2025
The combatants crossed swords and stood at guard. "If thou hast any friend to claim thy body, better write his name," said the man in the leather jerkin, as Effingston's blade touched his lightly, emitting a grating sound. The only answer was a swift lunge, dexterously parried.
Suddenly Winter's blade darted serpent-like beneath the guard of his adversary. A red stain appeared on Effingston's shoulder, and the seconds interposed their swords. The Viscount waved them back, as also he did the surgeon, who hastened to perform his office. "'Tis a touch only," said he hoarsely, breathing heavily, "on guard, sir, that we may finish quickly."
Suddenly, Effingston's foot slipped, he was almost upon his knees the man was upon him, one hand gripped his shoulder, forcing him to the ground, the other held the knife lifted high to add force to the blow; but that coveted strength cost him his life, for before the hand could descend, Effingston quickly raised his dagger, and drove it with all his might up to the guard in the neck left unprotected by his adversary's movement.
The other, also, came to the conclusion that no mere novice stood before him, for Effingston had turned every thrust with an ease which surprised him; and several times his sword had crept so closely to the leather jerkin that three or four brown furrows had appeared upon it. "Enough of this child's play," Effingston's antagonist hissed between his teeth, making another furious lunge.
The King had half arisen from the throne, his hands tightly grasping the gilded lions on either side, and his eyes fixed upon the dead form of Elinor, lying at Effingston's feet. All followed the monarch's glance, the ministers and peers leaning forward to better see the stricken girl growing rigid in the clasp of death.
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