“Not much farther to run now,” says he. “D’ye know any prayers, you English coward?”

I was labouring too hard to answer him with a taunt of my own; the sweat was coming off me like water, and my right wrist was aching damnably. But he was almost spent, too; as he cut at me and missed he staggered, and in desperation I tried the old Flashman triple pass—a sudden thrust at the face, a tremendous kick at his essentials, and a full-blooded downward cut. But where I had been to school, Rudi had graduated with honours; he sidestepped thrust and kick, and if I hadn’t postponed my intended cut in favour of an original parry—a blind sideways sweep accompanied by a squeal of alarm—he would have had me. As it was his point raked my left forearm before I could get out of range. He paused, panting, to jeer at me.

“So that’s the way gentlemen fight in England, is it?” says he. “No wonder you win your wars.”

“You should talk, you back-stabbing guttersnipe.” I was scared sick at the narrowness of my escape, and glad of the respite. “When did you last fight fair?”

“Let’s see, now,” says he, falling on guard again and trying another thrust. “It would be ’45, I think, or ’46—I was young then. But I was never as crude as you—see now.”

And making a play at my head he suddenly spat straight at me, and as I hesitated in astonishment he tried to run me through, but his tiredness betrayed him, and his point went wide.

“Now who’s a gentleman?” I shouted, but his only answer was a laugh and a sudden rush that drove me back almost to the grille of Carl Gustaf’s cell. One backward glance I had to take—God, the grille door was open, and I went through it like a jack rabbit, slamming it as he came rushing after. He got a foot in, and we heaved and cursed at each other. My weight must have told, but suddenly there was a shout behind me, and something crashed against the bars close to my head. It was a pewter pot—that damned Carl Gustaf was not only still alive but hurling his furniture at me. I must have relaxed instinctively, for Rudi forced the door back, and I went reeling into the middle of the chamber just as the royal idiot behind me let fly with a stool, which fortunately missed.

“I’m on your side, you crazy bastard!” I shouted. “Throw them at him!”

But he had nothing left now but his lamp, and he didn’t apparently fancy leaving us in the dark; he stood staring while Rudi rushed me, slashing for all he was worth. I hewed desperately back; the sabres clanged hilt to hilt, and we grappled, kicking and tearing at each other until he broke free. I caught him a cut on the left shoulder, and he swore foully and sprang into the attack again.