CHAPTER XXII
IN THE DEPTH OF THE ROCK
SHE threw one down at Philippa’s feet. But the other made no suggestion of taking it up.
“What nonsense! What madness!” she exclaimed indignantly. “Please show me the way and let me go. I have had enough of this place.”
“Not till I please,” Royda flung back. “You shall never go, if I can help it, for I mean to try to kill you. I tell you,” she went on, in an access of fury provoked by Philippa’s calmness, “you shall fight. If men can, why not we? I have no skill in fence, so we may be equal there, unless you have, and even then I am content. No one will interrupt us here. I am not one of your cold blood. You have crossed my love, ruined my life, and must take the consequences.”
“If,” Philippa returned, with a touch of haughtiness, “as you say, I am cold-blooded, you will understand my refusing anything so ridiculous as a duel. And, apart from its absurdity, I have no feeling against you or wish to hurt you.”
“So you take my blow and will not resent it, coward that you are.”
“I can make allowances for your excitement,” Philippa replied calmly, “and the error into which it has led you concerning my presence here.”
“Thank you,” Royda retorted scornfully. “You are very kind, so kind that your kindness is an insult. You shall fight me, Philippa Harlberg.”
“I will not.”
“But you shall. Or at least I will fight you, and if you do not choose to defend yourself——”
Philippa looked at the girl standing before her in the white heat of passion, impatiently bending the light rapier in her hands. The situation was absurd and yet serious. Philippa had quite her sex’s share of courage when it came to the point of action, but she felt utterly nonplussed by the extraordinary turn the night’s events had taken. She was practically a prisoner, alone with a girl whose naturally excitable nature was inflamed almost to madness against her.
“A duel is ridiculous, monstrous,” she protested. “I am ready to give you any other satisfaction.”
“What satisfaction?” Royda broke in passionately. “When two men love the same woman they fight. When two women love the same man——”
“But we do not,” Philippa interrupted. “I hate him.”
Royda gave an incredulous laugh. “You hate Aubray Zarka? Well, then one of us loves him and he loves the other. That is enough.”
“Because he won’t care for you I am to fight you?”
“Yes,” Royda answered savagely between her teeth, as though slung by the taunt, pushing with the point of her sword the other on the floor towards Philippa.
“I absolutely refuse.”
“Then you are a coward. As cowardly as you are treacherous.”
“At least I am not a romantic fool.”
“As I am?”
Philippa gave a shrug and turned away, weary of the scene. Instantly she heard a quick movement behind her and felt across her shoulders the sharp sting of a blow. Turning she found Royda close behind her with rapier uplifted in the act of striking her again. Her first impulse was to rush at her assailant and try to disarm her, but Royda, anticipating this, sprang back a pace and levelled the point of her weapon at her breast.
“Coward! You shall fight me, or I will kill you! Take up that sword and defend yourself.”
“I am no coward,” Philippa retorted. “You say you have no knowledge of fence. I have. I used to practice it in town. A contest between us would not be equal, and I have no desire—”
“I care nothing for that,” Royda broke in impatiently. “Nor for your advantage in being taller and having a longer reach. I mean to fight you. At least I cannot come off worse than I stand now, and it will be some sort of satisfaction. Now will you take that sword? You shall!” For Philippa had made an impatient gesture. “The world has not room for us both.”
“I tell you again it is monstrous,” Philippa insisted, regaining her composure. “I have no wish to touch you. How have you harmed me?”
Royda was calmer now, but her determination was none the less keen and unshakable. “That is nothing in affairs of honour,” she returned impatiently. “There is seldom grievance on both sides. But to prick that bubble of excuse—have I not given you two blows? Refuse to fight me and I will utterly ruin and disgrace you. I will proclaim Aubray Zarka as your lover; I can easily prove your secret visit here to-night, and the world shall know it. You have come here as a thief and must take the consequences. You cannot escape except to absolute shame. I will talk no more. I hate you. If you do not take up that sword I swear I will run you through the heart.”
The girl was in earnest, and Philippa could but realize the helpless position she was in. Escape was impossible. At night in that strange place, deep in the centre of the rock, from which she knew no way of escape, under the very roof of her dreaded lover, Zarka, there was nothing to do but to face her enemy. Expostulation was clearly useless before the fury of the jealous girl, and Philippa felt that she must act. She stooped and took up the rapier, and as she did so Royda drew a great breath of satisfaction.
“It is good!” she said between her teeth, and, leaning her own weapon against the nearest stand of armour, proceeded to divest herself of the upper portion of her dress.
“You had better do the same,” she observed quietly and coldly. “This will not be child’s play.”
Philippa was wearing a hooded cloak over her dress. Mechanically she unfastened and laid it aside. Shrinking from the absurd wrong and wickedness of the act they were about to commit, yet recognizing that she must make this desperate stroke as her only chance of escape, she felt no trace of fear, and her hope was that she might succeed in quickly disarming her adversary and so bring the mad affair to an end almost as soon as it should begin. Still she lingered, as one naturally delays over the preparation for a distasteful act.
Royda had stood ready for many seconds before Philippa took her sword and faced her for that most extraordinary encounter. It was a strange sight. The great rock-hewn room, the array of still, mail-clad figures, standing like ghostly spectators of a more singular combat than the wearers of the armour in life had ever witnessed, the line stretching away into the obscurity of the farther end of the room, while the half light was reflected by the burnished plates of the nearest figures on to the two women, warm and panting with life and excitement, confronting each other in what might be deadly combat. Great was the contrast between them. Royda d’Ivady was dark complexioned, not much above the middle height, but exquisitely formed, the full contour of her arms and bust and the rich-blooded, olive-hued skin being shown to perfection now she had removed her bodice; her face set with determination and her pose full of watchful energy. Philippa, a good head taller, long-limbed, her skin dazzlingly white against the sombre surroundings, with magnificent arms and shoulders—one showing a great livid wale where the rapier had whipped her—her figure perfect in its natural lines and mouldings, crowned by her royally set head and wealth of light brown hair glinting as the light fell on it. So she stood, a superb specimen of womanhood, with an expression of quiet courage on her face, handling her rapier with natural grace: it was as though a lion were opposed to a leopard; both were in earnest, yet perhaps hardly conscious that the result of this unwitnessed duel might mean murder.
In a moment their light rapiers had touched, and at the contact all Royda’s fury, which had lately been restrained, seemed to rush forth at her very sword’s point. It was clear at the first assault that both girls had some general idea of thrust and parry, although neither might have any practical skill in fence. After the first few passes both fenced warily as though the very touch of the steel had brought home to them the seriousness of their encounter.
Royda pressed Philippa, whose part was purely defensive, and who parried the vicious lunges as well as she could, thanking her stars for the few casual lessons which had taught her something of the art. Availing herself of her superior height, she tried several times to beat down the other’s guard and disarm her, but failed through Royda’s alertness and her own want of precise knowledge as to how the stroke should be accomplished. Her natural coolness, however, stood her in a good stead; Royda was hot-headed, quivering with passion, and lunged so wildly that Philippa found no difficulty, by keeping her head, in putting aside the assailing point. So she continued on the defensive, hoping that Royda would soon tire; indeed, she felt confident of wearing her down if only she could keep untouched, for she was strong, and to her the slender sword was little heavier to wield than a riding whip. So they fought on; Royda, pressing forward, vindictive, panting with exertion and excitement; Philippa calm, watchful, keeping her adversary at bay by sheer cool-headedness and strength of wrist, retreating at each more furious thrust, but never taking advantage of an opening for attack when she saw one. Not a word was spoken: they moved silently over the smooth floor; the only sound that broke the silence of that great vault-like room being the subdued clash of the little rapiers and the panting of the combatants. It was unscientific sword-play, but the adversaries were well matched, and the contest none the less exciting and in deadly earnest. Royda’s point had drawn blood more than once. There was a deep graze on Philippa’s left shoulder, where she had let a lunge pass too near, and her sword arm was bleeding slightly. But neither of these trivial wounds was deep enough to be felt through the excitement of the duel and Philippa continued to take the onslaught as coolly as when the fight began.
She had been gradually obliged to give ground till she at length found herself driven to the wall, where there was nothing for it but to attack or turn, the latter a perilous manœuvre, since she would have to fight her way round at close quarters. Royda, perceiving her intention, made several quick passes, trying to frustrate it by pinning her in a corner. She was, however, beginning to tire, and so Philippa, putting forth all her strength, was able to beat down her point, and by a quick movement slip round. But as she did so her foot caught in the beading of the raised platform on which the armoured effigies stood: she recovered herself, but in the act of letting go her long skirt it impeded her spring and she stumbled. Royda, quick as lightning, seized the opportunity, and lunging swiftly pierced the side of her neck. Stung by the pain Philippa sprang backwards, thereby disengaging herself from the rapier’s point. Royda, seeing the blood trickling over her enemy’s bosom, and probably thinking the wound she had inflicted worse than it really was, stood for a moment half paralyzed with her guard lowered. Philippa, excited and confused by the wound, struck down Royda’s sword sharply and lunged. Royda could not recover in time to parry the thrust, and the point passed through the fleshy part of her sword arm. She gave a cry, dropped her rapier, and staggered back. Philippa, springing forward, caught her in her arms as she fell, and the sword, pulled by its own weight from the wound, dropped ringing to the floor.