Mr.
Rassendyll had strength, will, coolness, and, of course, courage.
None would have availed had not his eye been in perfect
familiarity with its work, and his hand obeyed it as readily as
the bolt slips in a well-oiled groove. As the thing stood, the
lithe agility and unmatched dash of young Rupert but just missed
being too much for him. He was in deadly peril when the girl Rosa
ran down to bring him aid. His practised skill was able to
maintain his defence. He sought to do no more, but endured
Rupert's fiery attack and wily feints in an almost motionless
stillness. Almost, I say; for the slight turns of wrist that seem
nothing are everything, and served here to keep his skin whole
and his life in him.
There was an instant--Rudolf saw it in his eyes and dwelt on it
when he lightly painted the scene for me--when there dawned on
Rupert of Hentzau the knowledge that he could not break down his
enemy's guard. Surprise, chagrin, amusement, or something like
it, seemed blended in his look. He could not make out how he was
caught and checked in every effort, meeting, it seemed, a barrier
of iron impregnable in rest. His quick brain grasped the lesson
in an instant. If his skill were not the greater, the victory
would not be his, for his endurance was the less.
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