H. Bedford-Jones

“ In and out flickered his blade, a very tongue of death, and his eyes glared in sudden hot ferocity for blood. Shaw evaded that licking tongue by a hair; it reached around him, baffled him, bore him desperately backward.
He fought only by inspiration; his eyes upon the blazing stare of Barbarroja, his blade fending off the slithering death by sheer intuition. This could not last long, and Shaw knew it.
He was driven back and back, while ever those blood-hot eyes glared upon him, and the Toledo slid ever with more deadly lust. Now he was growing weary. ”

“ Look at this sword, little man! Look at the spring of it! A true Toledo blade out of the sherif’s treasury!”
He seized the long blade, bent it double, let it spring back again. Passion seized upon Shaw—the angry passion of one to whom all hope is lost.
“Vile renegade!” he spat out bitterly. “If you have the courage to face me, do so! Dog that you are, I suppose you will have your bandits pistol me in the back!”
A look of astonished fury swept into Barbarroja’s face. He stared at Shaw, then swung and faced his men. At an order from him, they retired. He turned again to Shaw. ”

“ Barbarroja strutted with huge gusto. “Poor little chicken of a man. Was not I, Lazaro de Polan, sent to kill Mulai Ali? Well, he is dead as yonder marabout! And you are in my power, and my friend Gholam Mahmoud will take the leather box when Spence shows up, as he must soon do!”
He laughed at the despair of Shaw. It was a proud moment for Barbarroja, whose vanity was the greatest part of him. He stood there and laughed, while that great flaming beard of his curled and matted over his chest. Already Barbarroja was a little drunk with the prowess of his arm and his wits. ”