As in their first encounter, they had established a definite rhythm of thrust and parry, riposte and counterparry. Even the feints became part of the pattern, since neither was fooled and thus left an opening.

Both were waiting for the opening which would not close quickly enough. TJie sweat ran down de Bergerac's face, streaking it where the liquid cleaned off the gunpowder grime. The salty liquid kept running into Burton's eyes, stinging them. Then he would retreat swiftly and wipe off his forehead and eyes with the back of his free hand. Most of the time, the small Frenchman took advantage of this break to mop his own forehead with a small cloth stuck between his waist and the upper end of his towel-kilt. These intervals kept getting more and more frequent, not only to wipe their faces but to recover their wind.

During one of these, Burton removed a breast-cloth from a dead woman to blot up the sweat. Then, watching de Bergerac to make sure that he wouldn't make afleche, a running attack, he tied the cloth around his head. De Bergerac stooped down and tore off a breast-cloth from another corpse to make a headband for himself.

Burton's mouth was very dry. His tongue felt as if it were as large and hard as a cucumber. He croaked, "A momentary truce, Monsieur de Bergerac. Let's both drink something before we die of thirst."

"Agreed."

Burton walked behind the bar, but the pipes of the sinks were empty. He went to the cabinet which the Frenchman had opened and brought out a bottle of purple passion. He removed the plastic stopper with his teeth and spat it out. He offered de Bergerac the first drink, but it was refused. He drank deeply and then handed the bottle over the bar to de Bergerac. The liquid burned in his throat and warmed his chest and guts. It helped his thirst somewhat, but he would not be satisfied until he got water.

De Bergerac held the bottle up against the light.

"Ah! You have swallowed three ounces, my friend. I shall do the same to insure an equal amount of inebriation in myself. It would not do if I were to kill you because you were drunker than I. You would then complain of unfairness, and the question of who is the superior swordsman would still be unanswered."

Burton laughed in his curious fashion between his teeth.

De Bergerac started, then said, "You sound like a cat, my friend."

He drank and when he put the bottle down, he coughed, his eyes tearing.

"Mordioux! It is certainly not French wine! It is for the barbarians of the North—or Englishmen!"

"You have never tasted it?" Burton said. "Not during the long voyage... ?"

"I told you I drank very little. Helas! Never in all my life have I dueled unless absolutely sober. And now I feel the blood singing, my strength beginning to return, though I know it is a falseness, the liquor lying to my senses. Never mind. If I am somewhat drunk and so my reflexes are slow and my judgment numbed, you will be in the same condition."

"That depends upon one's idiosyncratic reaction to alcohol," Burton said. "It may well be that I, who love strong liquor, may be more accustomed to its effects. Hence, I will have an advantage over you."

"We shall see," de Bergerac said, smiling. "Now, monsieur, will you please come out from behind that bar so we may resume our little debate?"

"Certainly," Burton said. He walked to the end of the bar and around it. Why not try lafleche, the running attack? But if his running glide missed or was parried, then he'd be off-balance, exposed to de Bergerac's point. Still, it was possible that he could close in and thus block the Frenchman's blade.

No. Would he consider such a move if he did not have three ounces of fifteen-percent-alcohol purple passion in his bloodstream? No. Forget it.

But what if he picked up the bottle and threw it at the same time he made the fleche? His opponent would have to duck, and this might throw him off his balance.

He stopped when he got opposite the wine bottle. He looked at it for a second while de Bergerac waited. Then, his left hand opened, and he sighed.

The Frenchman smiled, and he bowed a little.

"My compliments, monsieur. I was hoping that you would not succumb to temptation and try something dishonorable. This is a matter to be settled with the blade alone.

"I salute you for understanding this. And I salute you as the greatest duelist I've ever met, and I've met many of the best. It is so sad, so very sad, and utterly regrettable that this, the most magnificent of all duels, unsurpassed anywhere or anytime, should be seen by only us. What a pity! No, it is not a pity. It is a tragedy, a great loss to the world!"

Burton noted that the fellow's speech was slightly slurred. That was to be expected. But was the wily Frenchman exaggerating the effects of the alcohol to make Burton overconfident?

"I agree with you in principle," Burton said, "and I thank you for your compliments. I also must say that you're the greatest swordsman I've ever met. However, monsieur, you spoke a little while ago about my long-windedness. I believe that, though you may be my equal in swordplay, you are my superior in gabbiness."

The Frenchman smiled. "I am as facile with my tongue as with my sword. I gave as much pleasure to the reader of my books and the hearer of my voice as to the spectator of my fencing. I forgot that you are a reticent Anglo-Saxon, monsieur. So I will let my blade speak for me from now on."

"I'll bet you do," Burton said. "En garde!"

Their epees clashed again in thrust, in parry, in riposte, in counterriposte. But each had perfect defense in keeping the proper distance, in the timing, in the calculation, in the decision, and in coordination.

Burton could feel the poisons of fatigue and booze and knew that they must be slowing him down and affecting his judgment. But certainly they were working with equal or greater effect on his foe.

And then, as Burton parried a thrust toward his left upper arm and riposted with his point at de Bergerac's belly, he saw something coming in the doorway by the grand staircase. He leaped far backward and shouted, "Stop!"

De Bergerac saw that Burton was looking past him. He jumped backward to be far enough away from Burton if he were trying to trick him. And he saw the water flowing in a thin layer through the doorway.

He said, breathing hard, "So! The boat has sunk to our deck, Monsieur Burton. We do not have long. We must make an end to this very quickly."

Burton felt very tired. His breathing was harsh. His ribs felt as if knives were pricking them.

He advanced on the Frenchman, intending to make a running glide. But it was de Bergerac who did so. He exploded, seeming to have summoned from somewhere in his narrow body a burst of energy. Perhaps he had spotted finally a weakness in Burton's defense. Or he thought he had. Or he believed that he was the faster now that weariness had slowed his opponent more than it had him.

Whatever his reasons, he miscalculated. Or he may have performed perfectly. But Burton suddenly knew, by de Bergerac's body language, certain subtle muscular actions, a slight squinching of the eyes, what the Frenchman intended to do. He knew because he had been ready to do the same, and he'd had to suppress his body language, the signals, which would tell his foe his next move.

De Bergerac came at him in the running glide, a sliding thrust along the opponent's blade with a slight pressure. It was sometimes used to surprise and might have succeeded if Burton had not been ready, had not, in a sense, been looking into a mirror of himself preparing for the same maneuver.

The successful flash required surprise, speed, and mastery over the opponent's weapon. D/e Bergerac had the speed, but the surprise was missing, and so he lost the mastery.

A knowledgeable spectator would have said that de Bergerac had the advantage of control. He was more erect than Burton. His hand was higher, thus allowing the fort, the strong part of the blade from the bellguard to the middle, to contact and so master the feeble of Burton's e'pe'e, the weak part, that from the middle to the point.