The Free Lances. Майн Рид

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Creole have but added six inches to his rapier blade, in less than ten seconds the young Irishman would have had nearly so much of it passed between his ribs.

      Twice its point touched, slightly scratching the skin upon his breast, and drawing blood.

      For quite twenty minutes the sanguinary strife continued without any marked advantage to either. It was a spectacle somewhat painful to behold, the combatants themselves being a sight to look upon. Kearney’s shirt of finest white linen showed like a butcher’s; his sleeves encrimsoned; his hands, too, grasping his rapier hilt, the same—not with his own blood, but that of his adversary, which had run back along the blade; his face was spotted by the drops dashed over it from the whirling wands of steel.

      Gory, too, was the face of Santander; but gashed as well. Bending forward to put in a point, the Creole had given his antagonist a chance, resulting to himself in a punctured cheek, the scar of which would stay there for life.

      It was this brought the combat to an end; or, at all events, to its concluding stroke. Santander, vain of his personal appearance, on feeling his cheek laid open, suddenly lost command of himself, and with a fierce oath rushed at his adversary, regardless of the consequences.

      He succeeded in making a thrust, though not the one he intended. For having aimed at Kearney’s heart, missing it, his blade passed through the buckle of the young Irishman’s braces, where in an instant it was entangled.

      Only for half a second; but this was all the skilled swordsman required. Now, first since the fight began, his elbow was seen to bend. This to obtain room for a thrust, which was sent, to all appearance, home to his adversary’s heart.

      Every one on the ground expected to see Santander fall; for by the force of the blow and direction Kearney’s blade should have passed through his body, splitting the heart in twain. Instead, the point did not appear to penetrate even an inch! As it touched, there came a sound like the chinking of coin in a purse, with simultaneously the snap of a breaking blade, and the young Irishman was seen standing as in a trance of astonishment, in his hand but the half of a sword, the other half gleaming amongst the grass at his feet.

      It seemed a mischance, fatal to Florence Kearney, and only the veriest dastard would have taken advantage of it. But this Santander was, and once more drawing back, and bringing his blade to tierce, he was rushing on his now defenceless antagonist, when Crittenden called “Foul play!” at the same time springing forward to prevent it.

      His interference, however, would have been too late, and in another instant the young Irishman would have been stretched lifeless along the sward, but for a second individual who had watched the foul play—one who had been suspecting it all along. The sword of Santander seen flying off, as if struck out of his grasp, and his arm dropping by his side, with blood pouring from the tips of his fingers, were all nearly simultaneous incidents, as also the crack of a rifle and a cloud of blue smoke suddenly spurting up over one of the carriages, and half-concealing the colossal figure of Cris Rock, still seated on the box. Out of that cloud came a cry in the enraged voice of the Texan, with words which made all plain—

      “Ye darned Creole cuss! Take that for a treetur an’ a cowart! Strip the skunk! He’s got sumthin’ steely under his shirt; I heerd the chink o’ it.”

      Saying which he bounded down from the box, sprang over the water-ditch, and rushed on towards the spot occupied by the combatants.

      In a dozen strides he was in their midst, and before either of the two seconds, equally astonished, could interfere, he had caught Santander by the throat, and tore open the breast of his shirt!

      Underneath was then seen another shirt, not flannel, nor yet linen or cotton, but link-and-chain steel!

Chapter Eight.

       Table of Contents

      A Disgraced Duellist.

      Impossible to describe the scene which followed, or the expression upon the faces of those men who stood beside Santander. The Texan, strong as he was big, still kept hold of him, though now at arm’s length; in his grasp retaining the grown man with as much apparent ease as though it were but a child. And there, sure enough, under the torn flannel shirt, all could see a doublet of chain armour, impenetrable to sword’s point as plate of solid steel.

      Explanation this of why Carlos Santander was so ready to take the field in a duel, and had twice left his antagonist lifeless upon it. It explained also why, when leaping across the water-ditch, he had dropped so heavily upon the farther bank. Weighted as he was, no wonder.

      By this time the two doctors, with the pair of hackney-drivers, seeing that something had turned up out of the common course, parting from the carriages, had also come upon the ground; the jarveys, in sympathy with Cris Rock, crying, “Shame!” In the Crescent City even a cabman has something of chivalry in his nature—the surroundings teach and invite it—and now the detected scoundrel seemed without a single friend. For he—hitherto acting as such, seeing the imposture, which had been alike practised on himself, stepped up to his principal, and looking him scornfully in the face, hissed out the word “Lâche!”

      Then turning to Kearney and Crittenden he added—

      “Let that be my apology to you, gentlemen. If you’re not satisfied with it, I’m willing and ready to take his place—with either of you.”

      “It’s perfectly satisfactory, monsieur,” frankly responded the Kentuckian, “so far as I’m concerned. And I think I may say as much for Captain Kearney.”

      “Indeed, yes,” assented the Irishman, adding: “We absolve you, sir, from all blame. It’s evident you knew nothing of that shining panoply till now;” as he spoke, pointing to the steel shirt.

      The French-Creole haughtily, but courteously, bowed thanks. Then, facing once more to Santander, and repeating the “Lâche” strode silently away from the ground.

      They had all mistaken the character of the individual, who, despite a somewhat forbidding face, was evidently a man of honour, as he had proved himself.

      “What d’ye weesh me to do wi’ him?” interrogated the Texan, still keeping Santander in firm clutch. “Shed we shoot him or hang him?”

      “Hang!” simultaneously shouted the two hackney-drivers, who seemed as bitter against the disgraced duellist as if he had “bilked” them of a fare.

      “So I say, too,” solemnly pronounced the Texan; “shootin’s too good for the like o’ him; a man capable o’ sech a cowardly, murderous trick desarves to die the death o’ a dog.”

      Then, with an interrogating look at Crittenden, he added: “Which is’t to be, lootenant?”

      “Neither, Cris,” answered the Kentuckian. “If I mistake not, the gentleman has had enough punishment without either. If he’s got so much as a spark of shame or conscience—”

      “Conshence!” exclaimed Rock, interrupting. “Sech a skunk don’t know the meanin’ o’ the word. Darn ye!” he continued, turning upon his prisoner, and shaking him till the links in the steel shirt chinked, “I feel as if I ked drive the blade o’ my bowie inter ye through them steel fixin’s an’ all.”

      And, СКАЧАТЬ