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slow dance superintended by a merciless Gaston.
    The whole affair, step by step, blow by blow, had been planned down to the last inch. Both men suffered agonies from the strain on muscles unaccustomed to such exercise. They sweated profusely. Gaston had found an ancient 45-rpm record of the Anvil Chorus, which when played at a lower speed ground out a lugubrious, laborious, nightmarelike accompaniment, made more hateful by Gaston humming, also out of tune.
    The relationship among the three men was, from the first, uneasy. Dougal tended to be facetious. “What ho, varlet. Have at thee, miscreant,” he would cry.
    Morten — Macduff — did not respond to these sallies. He was ominously polite and glum to a degree. When Dougal swung at him, lost his balance, and ran, as it were, after his own weapon, wild-eyed, an expression of great concern upon his face, Morten allowed himself a faint sneer. When Dougal finally tripped and fell in a sitting position with a sickening thud, the sneer deepened.
    “The balance!” Gaston screamed. “How many times must I insist? If you lose the balance of your weapon you lose your own balance and end up looking foolish. As now.”
    Dougal rose. With some difficulty and using his claymore as a prop.
    “No!” chided Gaston. “It is to be handled with respect, not dug into the floor and climbed up.”
    “This is merely a dummy. Why should I respect it?”
    “It weighs exactly the same as the claidheamh-mor.”
    “What’s that got to do with it?”
    “Again! We begin at the beginning. Again! Up! Weakling!”
    “I’m not accustomed,” said Dougal magnificently, “to being treated in this manner.”
    “No? Forgive me, Sir Dougal. And, let me tell you, Sir Dougal, that I, Gaston Sears, am not accustomed to conducting myself like a mincing dancing master, Sir Dougal. It is only because this fight is to be performed before audiences of discrimination, with weapons that are the precise replicas of the original claidheamh-mor, that I have consented to teach you.”
    “If you ask me, we’d get on a lot better if we faked the whole show. The whole bloody show. Oh, all right, all right,” Dougal amended, answering the really alarming expression that contorted Gaston’s face. “I give in. Let’s get on with it. Come on.”
    “Come on,” echoed Morten. “
Thou bloodier villain than terms can give thee out
!”
    Whack. Bang. Down came his claymore, caught on Macbeth’s shield. “Te-tum.
Te-tum-te
— disengage,” shouted Gaston. “Macbeth sweeps across. Macduff leaps over the blade. Te-tum-tum. That is better. That is an improvement. You have achieved the rhythm. Now we shall take it a little faster.”
    “Faster! My God, you’re killing us.”
    “You handle your weapon like a peasant. Look. I shall show you. Here, give it to me.”
    Dougal, using both hands, threw the claymore at him. With great dexterity, Gaston caught it by the hilt, twirled it, and held it before him, pointed at Dougal.
    “Hah!” he shouted. “Hah and hah again.” He lunged, changed his grip, and swept the weapon up — and down.
    Dougal leaped to one side. “Christ Almighty!” he cried. “What are you doing?”
    Grimacing abominably, Gaston brought the heavy claymore up in a conventional salute.
    “Handling my weapon, Sir Dougal. And you will do so before I have finished with you.”
    Dougal whispered.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “You’ve got the strength of the devil, Gaston.”
    “No. It is a matter of balance and rhythm more than strength. Come, take the first exchange a tempo. Yes, a tempo. Come.”
    He offered the claymore ceremoniously to Dougal, who took it and heaved it up into the salute.
    “Good! We progress. One moment.”
    He went to the phonograph and altered the timing. “Listen,” he said and switched it on. Out came the Anvil Chorus, remorselessly truthful as if rejoicing in its own restoration. Gaston switched it off. “That is our timing.” He turned to Simon Morten. “Ready,