Adventure Magazine Cover, March 20, 1925 — page 35: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Snow Driver And Thorne, listening to the break and wash of the swell on the beach where he had played many a time not so long since, now had eyes only for the stalwart figure that loomed in its white shirt over against the trees. “Begin, gentlemen,” quoth the red beard. Durforth stepped toward his antagonist, his point advanced, the dagger in his left hand gripped at his hip. The armiger took time to salute him, smiling, and this seemed to anger the ship master who lunged and sprang in, his dagger flashing. Engaging and parrying the sword, Thorne stepped aside from the dagger thrust, half turning as he did so. For a moment the two blades slithered together as the swords- men felt each other out. Durforth was in no mood for this and leaped in, grunting, for his antagonist had turned his sword aside and avoided the dagger thrust again. This time the armiger stepped clear, lowering his point. ‘Guard yourself bet- ter, Durforth, or I will spoil you.” He had not used his poniard yet, but as Durforth thrust powerfully, he locked sword hilts, and stabbed at the man’s heart. Durforth was quick to see the dagger flash, and hisown poniard went at Thorne’s throat. There was no parrying and no avoiding the double cuts. But Durforth swayed to the right as he struck, so that the armi- ger’s dagger missed his heart, ripping through his side instead. And Durforth’s poniard, instead of entering the youth’s throat, grated against the collarbone and caught in the shoulder muscles. They drew their daggers clear, and: Thorne, feeling his left arm grow numb, let his own fall to the grass. “A cool head, I vow,” muttered the sur- geon, calling Chancellor’s attention to this. “He may not strike a good blow with his left, and so presses the tall fellow with his sword. Ha!” Durforth, feeling the blood drain from his wound had advanced to the attack again, his dark eyes venomous. But Thorne’s rapier coiled over his blade and forced him to give ground. Back and back he went, to the side of the field where they had entered. All his skill was bent to the task of guarding his life, for he was given no further chance to use the poniard. “A moment ago,” quoth the surgeon critically, ‘‘the lad would have exchanged his throat for a blow, but now—a rare 17 sword, he. Give you odds, sir, he slays the black beard.” It fell out otherwise. Figures appeared in the dusk, running from the tavern, voices cried out and the ringing of steel ceased. Two gentlemen who came upon the scene had struck up the weapons of the antagon- ists, and between them stood a form there was no mistaking. “Tn the king’s name, have done!”’ Master Cabot’s thin voice was rife with anxiety. He breathed hard, having come in haste when he heard at the inn of the duel that was to be fought. With him were others in a green livery, and one especially, who, attired in all the splendor of costly sables and seal skin with a massy chain of gold around his throat, kept in the center of the newcomers as by right and stared about him thoughtfully, pinching his lip between thumb and forefinger. Durforth dashed the sweat from his eyes and flung down his weapons, calling upon the surgeon to bind his hurt, but Thorne confronted Cabot sword in hand, quivering with anger. “Sir, by what right do you come between us?” The old navigator leaned on his stick composedly. “Tush, lad, is the voyage to Cathay not a greater thing than thy wildfire temper? I can not have Master Durforth spoiled for the venture. nay he knoweth, above all others, the proper course to round Norway. Amend thy quarreling and cry quits.” “‘Never!”’ broke in Thorne. Cabot fingered his long beard, frowning. “Thy father came to me at the manor house, and did ask that the duel be stopped, for like the loyal Englishman he is, he hath the success of the venture at heart.” . “Nay, your Durforth hath earned his death.” ““How?”’ Thorne opened his lips to reply, but be- holding the new arrival who stood apart among the men in livery, he kept silence while the company in the meadow scanned him curiously. “T may not say, at this moment.” Hearing this, Durforth, who had been bending over the bandage on his side, smiled and sheathed the sword that the surgeon handed him. ‘‘Vou are discreet—a trifle late, my young hotspur.”’ ANICLOO© C©