Facing each other, they saluted with their swords and then stood with the right arm pointing downwards and across the body so that the hilt of the sword was against the right thigh and the blade directed to the rear.
"One word, Sir Matthew de Warrenne," said Sir Seymour as they paused in this attitude.

"If my point rests for a second on your hilt _you are a dead man_." Sir Matthew laughed in an ugly manner and replied:-- "And what is your knavish design now, Sir Seymour Stukeley ?" "My design _was_ to warn you of an infallible trick of fence, Sir Matthew.

It _now_ is to kill you--for the insult, and on behalf of ...
your own unhappy daughter." The other yawned and remarked to his friend:-- "I have a parade in half an hour." "On guard," cried the person addressed, drawing his sword and striking an attitude.
"Play," cried Captain Delorme, doing similarly.
Both principals crouched somewhat, held their swords horizontal, with point to the adversary's breast and hilt drawn back, arm sharply bent--for both, it appeared, had perfected the Art of Arts in Italy.
These niceties escaped the boy in his earlier dreamings of the dream--but the time came when he could name every pass, parry, invitation, and riposte.
The strong man suddenly threw his sword-hand high and towards his left shoulder, keeping his sword horizontal, and exposing the whole of his right side.
Sir Seymour lunged hard for his ribs, beneath the right arm-pit and, as the other's sword swooped down to catch his, twist it over, and riposte, he feinted, cleared the descending sword, and thrust at the throat.

A swift ducking crouch let the sword pass over the strong man's head, and only a powerful French circular parry saved the life of Sir Seymour Stukeley.
As the boy realized later, he fought Italian in principle, and used the best of French parries, ripostes, and tricks, upon occasion--and his own perfected combination of the two schools made him, according to Captain Delorme, the best fencer in the King's army.

So at least the Captain said to the other second, as they amicably chatted while their friends sought to slay each other before their hard, indifferent-seeming eyes.
To the boy their talk conveyed little--as yet.
The duellists stepped back as the "phrase" ended, and then Sir Seymour gave an "invitation," holding his sword-arm wide to the right of his body.