There is, indeed, much that may be said against Rupert of
Hentzau, the truth about him well-nigh forbidding that charity of
judgment which we are taught to observe towards all men. But
neither I nor any man who knew him ever found in him a shrinking
from danger or a fear of death. It was no feeling such as these,
but rather a cool calculation of chances, that now stayed his
hand. Even if he were victorious in the duel, and both did not
die, yet the noise of the firearms would greatly decrease his
chances of escape. Moreover, he was a noted swordsman, and
conceived that he was Mr. Rassendyll's superior in that exercise.
The steel offered him at once a better prospect for victory and
more hope of a safe fight. So he did not pull his trigger, but,
maintaining his aim the while, said:
"I'm not a street bully, and I don't excel in a rough-and-tumble.
Will you fight now like a gentleman? There's a pair of blades in
the case yonder."
Mr. Rassendyll, in his turn, was keenly alive to the peril that
still hung over the queen. To kill Rupert would not save her if
he himself also were shot and left dead, or so helpless that he
could not destroy the letter; and while Rupert's revolver was at
his heart he could not tear it up nor reach the fire that burnt
on the other side of the room.
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