At the sound of horses’ hoofs pounding across the field they all turned; it was not uncommon for a party to be sent to stop such meetings. But as Amber pulled on her reins and they saw who it was Bruce looked quickly away—though not before she had seen the angry annoyance on his face. Rex, however, stood and stared at her.
“Oh, Rex, darling!” she cried, stopping only a few feet from him and holding out her hand. “Thank God I got here in time! You mustn’t fight this duel—you mustn’t, Rex! Please, darling, for my sake!” Her eyes turned swiftly to the corners and she saw Bruce look across at her; his expression was sombre and a cynical half-smile touched one side of his mouth. Sick with fury she wanted to hurt him, any way she could. “There’s no reason for you to fight, Rex! Why, I don’t care any more for him than the man in the moon!” There! she thought savagely, and flung him a vindictive glance; he met it with cold contempt, impervious as stone.
But as her eyes shifted across to Bruce and back again she missed altogether the look on Rex’s face, and when she looked down at him it had gone. The wild unreasoning rage of despair had disappeared. Now he was quiet, self-possessed, and seemed cool. In her preoccupation with her own worries Amber did not realize that his seeming calm was a deadly determination and that his own tension quivered like the thin blade in his hand. Misunderstanding, she still thought that she could make him do what she wanted.
“You shouldn’t have come out here, Amber,” he said. “A duelling-ground is no place for a woman. Go on back.” He turned away and walked toward the rest of the group.
“Rex!” she cried, really alarmed now, and as Jeremiah came to help her dismount she got down as quickly as she could and ran after him, grabbing him by the arm. “Rex! I don’t want you to fight! I don’t want you to, d’you hear me?”
He neither looked at her nor answered, but jerked his arm free and went on. Amber would not have stopped even then, but suddenly Almsbury caught hold of her. “Come back here. You’ll be in the way up there.”
“But I can’t let them fight! I won’t—”
“Amber, for the love of Christ!” he growled at her. “Now stay here! Don’t move!”
Helplessly she stood where he had left her. Bruce and Rex both had unsheathed their swords, and with Almsbury and the officer they were talking in low tones. At last, giving a shrug of his shoulders, Almsbury moved back; Dillon took out a white handkerchief and indicated where each man was to stand. The Earl looked at her with a scowl.
“What is it?” she asked him anxiously. “What’s the matter?”
“Carlton wants to consider it settled when blood has been drawn, but your noble champion won’t be satisfied until one of them is dead.”
“Dead! Why, he’s out of his mind! He can’t! I won’t let him!”
She broke away from Almsbury and started forward at a run. “Rex!”
Almsbury caught her arm before she had gone three steps and brought her up with a jerk. “Stop it, you little fool! A duel’s no game between children! Keep your mouth shut or go back home! You’ve got no business here in the first place!”
Surprised, she obeyed him, and stopped perfectly still. The two men now stood facing each other, poised, sword-tips touching, and Colonel Dillon held the handkerchief over his head.
“All’s ready!” called Bruce and Rex in the same voice.
“All’s ready!” Dillon brought the handkerchief down with a sweep.
Both of them were quick, fierce, and graceful, expert swordsmen. But the English style of fencing was to cut rather than to thrust, as the French did, and as they were almost of a height neither had the advantage in that respect. Rex, however, was not fencing but fighting with reckless fury, and obviously intended to kill or be killed, while Bruce was on the defensive— protecting himself but making no effort to wound his antagonist.
Amber stood watching them, her eyes darting from one to the other; her throat was dry and she twisted her skirt in her fingers. But her fears were all for Bruce—she might not have even known the man he was fighting. And when Rex’s sword pierced his right upper-arm, just below the shoulder, and drew a quick streak of blood she gave a scream and started forward. Almsbury threw one arm about her waist and dragged her back.
Bruce had lowered his sword and Rex, refusing to seize an unfair advantage, dropped his own to his side. The blood from the small gash was streaming down Bruce’s right arm, staining his shirt and making red rivers along the exposed brown skin, and the sight of it filled Amber with terror and remorse.
“Oh, Bruce!” she wailed. “You’re hurt!”
Rex’s jaw set tensely, but Bruce ignored her.
“There,” he said to Rex. “That should satisfy you.”
More furious than ever since Amber’s impulsive cry, Rex answered him through clenched teeth. “Nothing could satisfy me but to see you dead.”
Amber gave a terrified scream that momentarily drew all eyes to her but Almsbury clapped his hand to her mouth and gave her a rough shake.
“If you don’t shut up you’ll distract him and he will get killed!”
Already the swords had begun to ring and clash again; now there was no doubt that Bruce was fighting in earnest, no longer merely defending himself. For several minutes the men moved rapidly back and forth, slashing and hacking, without either one being able to touch the other.
And then all at once the swords met, engaged, and locked. For a long tense moment they strained to get free, both men pouring sweat, their faces contorted with the intensity of effort. Then, so swiftly that it was not possible to see it happen, Bruce forced his sword free and thrust it into Rex’s chest until the tip showed through his shirt in back; and then he withdrew it, red with blood.
For an instant Rex stood as though stunned, and then he fell slowly, crumpling. The surgeons ran toward him and Amber rushed forward, dropping to her knees beside him where he lay on the grass. Her throat muscles were so stiff with horror that for a moment she could not even say his name, but she took his head into her arms, cradling it against her breast, and then suddenly a mournful frightened sob broke from her and her tears splashed onto his face.
“Oh, Rex! Rex!”. she moaned. “Speak to me, darling! Speak to me—please!” Her mouth touched his forehead, his temples and eyelids, with frantic passionate kisses.
Behind her, Bruce took Almsbury’s handkerchief and wiped the blood from his sword, jammed it back into its case and buckled the belt around his hips once more. By tradition the sword of the defeated man was forfeit, but he made no move to take it and Rex’s fingers were still loosely clasped on the hilt. Bruce’s surgeon was tearing open his shirt and binding the wound with a strip of white cloth while Bruce stood, hands on his hips and feet spread, looking down at Rex. His face was dark and grim, bitter but not triumphant.
Rex was moving restlessly, as if to escape the pain, and though he coughed and turned his head to spit out blood there was very little blood coming from the wound in his chest. Amber was sobbing hysterically, covering his face with kisses and stroking his head with her hands.
“Rex, darling! Look at me! Speak to me!”
He opened his eyes at last, very slowly, and as he saw her he tried to smile. “I’m ashamed, Amber,” he said softly, “that you saw me—beaten.”
“Oh, Rex! I don’t care about that! You know I don’t! All I care about is you—Are you in pain? Does it hurt you?”
A quick spasm crossed his face and the sweat started suddenly, but his features relaxed again as he looked up at her. “No—Amber. It doesn’t hurt. I’ll be—” But at that moment he coughed again and turned his head to spit out a great glob of clotted blood. His mouth was splattered with it; his eyes shut and one hand pressed hard against his chest in an effort to stop the gurgling cough.