he owned it not to himself, and would have died rather, was the singular composure of the man who was his opponent.  Every feature, every muscle, every fibre of him seemed embodied stillness, and ’twas not that the mere physical members of him were still, but that the power which was himself, his will, his thought, his motion was in utter quiet, and of a quiet which was deadly in its significance and purpose.  ’Twas that still strength which knows its power and will use it, and ever by its presence fills its enemy with impotent rage.

With such rage it filled John Oxon as he beheld it, and sneered.  He had heard rumours of the wonders of his Grace’s sword-play, that from boyhood he had excelled and delighted in it, that in the army he had won renown, through mere experiments of his skill, that he was as certain of his weapon as an acrobat of his least feat—­but ’twas not this which maddened the other man but the look in his steady eye.

“You are the bigger man of the two,” he jeered, impudently, “but give me your lesson and shut my mouth on Clo Wildairs—­if you can.”

“I am the better man,” says my lord Duke, “and I will shut it.  But I will not kill you.”

Then they engaged, and such a fight began as has not been often seen, for such a battle is more of spirit than body, and is more like to be fought alone between two enemies whose antagonism is part of being itself, than to be fought in the presence of others whose nearness would but serve to disturb it.

John Oxon had fought duels before, through women who were but his despised playthings, through braggadocio, through drunken folly, through vanity and spite—­but never as he fought this night on the broad heath, below the paling stars.  This man he hated, this man he would have killed by any thrust he knew, if the devil had helped him.  There is no hatred, to a mind like his, such as is wakened by the sight of another’s gifts and triumphs—­all the more horrible is it if they are borne with nobleness.  To have lost all—­to see another possess with dignity that thing one has squandered!  And for this frenzy there was more than one cause.  Clo Wildairs!  He could have cursed aloud.  My Lady Dunstanwolde!  He could have raved like a madman.  She!  And a Duke here—­this Duke would shut his mouth and give him a lesson.  He lunged forward and struck wildly; my lord Duke parried his point as if he played with the toy of a child, and in the clear starlight his face looked a beautiful mask, and did not change howsoever furious his opponent’s onslaught, or howsoever wondrous his own play.  For wondrous it was, and before they had been engaged five minutes John Oxon was a maddened creature, driven so, not only by his own fury, but by seeing a certain thing—­which was that this man could kill him if he would, but would not.  When he had lost his wits and made his senseless lunge, his Grace had but parried when he might have driven his point home; he did this again and again