making it bleed. The seconds, however, decided that the thrust was not
serious, and made no attempt to interrupt the combat.

Dyck kept singularly cool. As Mallow's face grew flushed, his own grew
paler, but it was the paleness of intensity and not of fear. Each man's
remarkable skill in defence was a good guarantee against disaster due to
carelessness. Seldom have men fought so long and accomplished so little
in the way of blood-letting. At length, however, Dyck's tactics changed.
Once again he became aggressive, and he drove his foe to a point where
the skill of both men was tried to the uttermost. It was clear the time
had come for something definite. Suddenly Dyck threw himself back with
an agile step, lunged slightly to one side, and then in a gallant
foray got the steel point into the sword-arm of his enemy. That was
the Enniscorthy stroke, which had been taught him by William Tandy,
the expert swordsman, and had been made famous by Lord Welling, of
Enniscorthy. It succeeded, and it gave Dyck the victory, for Mallow's
sword dropped from his hand.

A fatigued smile came to Mallow's lips. He clasped the wounded arm with
his left hand as the surgeon came forward.

"Well, you got it home," he said to Dyck; "and it's deftly done."

"I did my best," answered Dyck. "Give me your hand, if you will."

With a wry look Mallow, now seated on the old stump of a tree, held out
his left hand. It was covered with blood.

"I think we'll have to forego that courtesy, Calhoun," he said. "Look
at the state of my hand! It's good blood," he added grimly. "It's damned
good blood, but--but it won't do, you see."

"I'm glad it was no worse," said Dyck, not touching the bloody hand.
"It's a clean thrust, and you'll be better from it soon. These great
men"--he smiled towards the surgeons--"will soon put you right. I got
my chance with the stroke, and took it, because I knew if I didn't you'd
have me presently."

"You'll have a great reputation in Dublin town now, and you'll deserve
it," Mallow added adroitly, the great paleness of his features, however,
made ghastly by the hatred in his eyes.

Dyck did not see this look, but he felt a note of malice--a distant
note--in Mallow's voice. He saw that what Mallow had said was fresh
evidence of the man's arrogant character. It did not offend him,
however, for he was victor, and could enter the Breakneck Club or Dublin
society with a tranquil eye.

Again Mallow's voice was heard.

"