Now ... let them
go."
Sir Timothy resumed his seat and leaned back in leisurely
fashion. The two attendants solemnly released their captives.
There was a moment's intense silence. The two men seemed fencing
for position. There was something stealthy and horrible about
their movements as they crept around one another. Francis
realised what it was almost as the little sobbing breath from
those of the audience who still retained any emotion, showed him
that they, too, foresaw what was going to happen. Both men had
drawn knives from their belts. It was murder which had been let
loose.
Francis found himself almost immediately upon his feet. His
whole being seemed crying out for interference. Lady Cynthia's
death-white face and pleading eyes seemed like the echo of his
own passionate aversion to what was taking place. Then he met
Sir Timothy's gaze across the room and he remembered his promise.
Under no conditions was he to protest or interfere. He set his
teeth and resumed his seat. The fight went on. There were
little sobs and tremors of excitement, strange banks of silence.
Both men seemed out of condition. The sound of their hoarse
breathing was easily heard against the curtain of spellbound
silence. For a time their knives stabbed the empty air, but from
the first the end seemed certain.
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