Alyna felt her heart was beating so hard that the people near her must hear it.

The duellists now seemed to quicken their efforts. The Prince, as if furious at having been blooded before his opponent, tore at Lord Dorrington and his sword hissed through the air with a sound like that of a whip.

He lunged again and again, but always Lord Dorrington seemed to be just out of reach.

“I will kill you!” he growled suddenly.

His voice was quite audible to those who were watching and there was no mistaking the primitive lust for blood in the expression on his face.

“Are you suggesting,” Lord Dorrington asked, his voice quiet and quite unperturbed, “that we should fight to the death?”

“It will be your death, you dressed-up nincompoop!” the Prince replied. “Your death! And then, of course, I can have the pleasure of consoling your bride.”

Alyna knew by the expression on Lord Alvanley’s and Lord Worcester’s faces that they were incredulous that anyone should speak in such a way and at such a moment.

She felt that she must scream with the terror that gripped her.

“Content!” Lord Dorrington answered.

And now they were fighting more violently even than before.

It was then that Alyna realised that she was watching something so incredible that at first she thought she must be dreaming.

But slowly and unmistakably she was aware that Lord Dorrington was playing with the Prince.

He was fighting with him, it was true, but his swordsmanship was so entirely different, so gracefully polished and correct, that it was like watching a ballet.

Lord Dorrington’s grace was classical and unmistakable. So was the twist of his wrist, his stance, the lightness of his feet and the expertise with which he parried.

He made the Prince seem clumsy, bullish, almost an amateur in comparison.

As if the Prince began to realise what he was up against, he lost his temper even more violently than he had lost it before.

Again and again Lord Dorrington touched him with just a flick of his sword.

There were several little crimson patches of blood on the Prince’s shoulders and on his arms. Those watching knew perfectly well that Lord Dorrington was showing his contempt for his opponent.

The wounds could have been far deeper or in a more vital spot, but instead he was deliberately showing Prince Ahmadi that every move he made was ineffective, that he and not the Prince was the Master swordsman.

With the swiftness and grace of a panther he drew blood again and yet again.

Now the Minister stepped forward and separated the two opponents.

“Honour is satisfied, Your Highness,” he said insistently. “There is no point in going further and it might be disastrous.”

There was no mistaking the innuendo in his voice, but the Prince merely glared at him.