He was younger,
and his frame was not so closely knit; pleasure had taken its
tithe from him; perhaps a good cause goes for something. Even
while he almost pressed Rudolf against the panel of the door, he
seemed to know that his measure of success was full. But what the
hand could not compass the head might contrive. In quickly
conceived strategy he began to give pause in his attack, nay, he
retreated a step or two. No scruples hampered his devices, no
code of honor limited the means he would employ. Backing before
his opponent, he seemed to Rudolf to be faint-hearted; he was
baffled, but seemed despairing; he was weary, but played a more
complete fatigue. Rudolf advanced, pressing and attacking, only
to meet a defence as perfect as his own. They were in the middle
of the room now, close by the table. Rupert, as though he had
eyes in the back of his head, skirted round, avoiding it by a
narrow inch. His breathing was quick and distressed, gasp
tumbling over gasp, but still his eye was alert and his hand
unerring. He had but a few moments' more effort left in him: it
was enough if he could reach his goal and perpetrate the trick on
which his mind, fertile in every base device, was set.
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