He remembered that he had drunk much wine, yet, before this, he had not
fought the worse upon such a quantity. He had known sudden encounters
over dice and cards when the settlement followed hard upon the quarrel,
as well as more formal duels, and in none had he been beaten. Truly this
Crosby was no mean opponent, but no glow of satisfaction at meeting a
worthy foeman came to Lord Rosmore. This must be a fight to the death,
and twice in quick succession he attempted a thrust, a famous thrust of
his, which had so often carried death with it. Now it was parried,
easily it seemed, and barely could he turn aside the answering point
which flashed towards him. For a few moments he was entirely on the
defensive, with never an opening to attack.
Gilbert Crosby's actual experience was not equal to his skill. Once only
had he fought a duel, and had wounded his man on that occasion. He was
confident of his skill as he faced Lord Rosmore, but he knew that he
must lack something of that assurance which comes to the persistent
duellist, that detachment of self which so often helps to victory. He
was conscious of a certain anxiety which made him more than usually
cautious.
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