The poor fellow and his Second trotted over. My Second was already sat on his favourite tree stump, scribbling away in his note book.
The fellow had insulted me when we were both drunk, and now faced the consequences of his actions. He looked a little tired, but on good form apart from that. As the insulted party, he had chosen weapons and had a very professional looking sabre.
I like to make my own weapons, and my sabre is less standard. It resembles a cutlas, in that it is unusually broad, and abit short.
The fellow's Second looked rather cross. I did not recognise him, but he knew my reputation.
'Butcher!' he grunted at me,' One step out of line and I swear I shall blow your brains out.'
He had a brace of pistols and a sword at his belt, and looked capable.
No matter. I never cheat.
'Are you ready, and familiar with the proceedings?' I asked the fellow.
'Yes,' he tried to smile, and drew his sword.
We stood on guard, bowed, then began.
He slashed at my leg, and I parried.
He went for my chest, and I dodged.
I slashed at his left leg, and he blocked.
He was too slow to defend his right leg.
I cut it, and he stumbled.
I cut his throat open.
His Second rushed to his side.
Too late. I walked away.
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