For it was
towards the mantelpiece that his retreat, seeming forced, in
truth so deliberate, led him. There was the letter, there lay the
revolvers. The time to think of risks was gone by; the time to
boggle over what honor allowed or forbade had never come to
Rupert of Hentzau. If he could not win by force and skill, he
would win by guile and by treachery, to the test that he had
himself invited. The revolvers lay on the mantelpiece: he meant
to possess himself of one, if he could gain an instant in which
to snatch it.
The device that he adopted was nicely chosen. It was too late to
call a rest or ask breathing space: Mr. Rassendyll was not blind
to the advantage he had won, and chivalry would have turned to
folly had it allowed such indulgence. Rupert was hard by the
mantelpiece now. The sweat was pouring from his face, and his
breast seemed like to burst in the effort after breath; yet he
had enough strength for his purpose. He must have slackened his
hold on his weapon, for when Rudolf's blade next struck it, it
flew from his hand, twirled out of a nerveless grasp, and slid
along the floor. Rupert stood disarmed, and Rudolf motionless.
"Pick it up," said Mr.
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