'Play!' cried the Baron.
Andrea was prepared for an impetuous attack from Rutolo, but the latter
did not move. For about a minute, they stood watching each other closely
without ever crossing swords, almost motionless. Sperelli bending his
knees still more, on guard with the point low, assumed the tierce guard
and sought to provoke his adversary by the insolent challenge of his
eyes and by stamping his foot. Rutolo made a step forward with a menace
of straight thrust, accompanying it with a cry after the manner of
certain Sicilian fencers. The duel began.
Sperelli avoided any decisive movement, restricting himself to parrying
only, forcing his opponent to discover his intentions, to exhaust all
his methods, to bring out his whole repertoire of sword-play. His
parries were neat and rapid, never yielding a foot of ground, admirable
in precision, as if he were taking part in a fencing match in the school
with blunt foils; whereas Rutolo attacked him warmly, accompanying each
thrust with a hoarse cry like that of the wood-cutters when they use
their hatchets.
'Halt!' cried Santa Margherita, whose vigilant eye marked every flash of
the blades.
He went up to Rutolo, 'You are touched, if I am not mistaken,' he said.
True, Rutolo had a scratch on the forearm, but so slight that there was
no need even of sticking-plaster.
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