A little before the appointed hour that evening, having taken old Bastienne into their confidence, they secretly left the house, and made their way to the place of rendezvous, which, as has been said, was but a short distance away. All three were soon established in the cramped and narrow little stairway which Marguerite had described, and waited with no small trepidation the arrival of the contestants.

It was difficult to keep Bastienne quiet. A bright moon was shining in a clear sky, and a gentle breeze crept in from the Channel, cold and piercing. The younger women scarcely felt it; but Bastienne's old bones ached, according to her, as they had never ached before. However, by dint of threats and entreaties, they succeeded in silencing her; and none too soon, for a brisk step was heard approaching, and the next moment a gay voice soliloquised close beside them:

"By the light of the moon I should say I had arrived a little early.

Time for reflection, however. It is always well to give a thought to one's chances in the next world just before a fight."

As he spoke he took his stand within a few feet of where the girls were concealed, and began his reflections on the world at whose portals he was standing, by trolling a gay drinking song. When it was finished he recklessly dashed into a Spanish ditty, commemorating the defeat of King Francis at Pavia. In this he was interrupted by an angry voice at his elbow:

"A pleasing pastime for a son of France--to sing the glory of her foes!"

"So ho!" replied La Pommeraye cheerfully, "Monsieur's anger has not yet cooled. I had never a thought of the words--it was the air that carried me away, and, perhaps, the fine description the song gives of King Francis' stand on that fatal day. No one joys in and yet regrets that fight more than I do. I won my spurs in it, and I am here to defend them to-night. But how does the fair one on whose account we meet? 'Tis a pity she should not be here to witness her lover's doughty deeds a second time."

"Villain!" came the indignant answer, "before you utter any further insults, know that you speak of Mdlle. de Roberval, my niece, whose name your vile lips are not worthy so much as to p.r.o.nounce. Draw, and defend your life!"

"I trust the Sieur de Roberval will pardon my error," said La Pommeraye, drawing back with a bow, while his whole air changed to one of respectful deference. "Had I known the circ.u.mstances, I should not have been so ready to offer you the second contest. In the light of the moon I mistook your years. Your skill with the sword is, I am aware, justly renowned, but my youth and strength give me the advantage. Accept my humble apologies, Sieur, and let us end this quarrel without blows. I will leave St Malo at once, and you shall not be reminded by my presence of this most unfortunate affair."

The n.o.bleman's voice was fairly choked with rage.

"Draw, coward!" he hissed. "It is not enough that you must insult, in the person of an unprotected girl, the oldest name in France, but you dare to taunt with age and unskilfulness a man whose sword is dishonoured by being crossed with yours. Were my age thrice what it is, my arm would still have strength to defend the honour of my house. Stand on your guard!" As he spoke, he made a fierce and sudden lunge, which would have taken a less wary opponent by surprise, and ended the duel on the spot.

It was met and parried, and a cool, steady counter-thrust severed the cord of the cloak about De Roberval's shoulders.

"You fight at a disadvantage with that cloak about you, Sieur. I have removed it," said La Pommeraye, with no scorn in his voice, but with a calm self-possession which told De Roberval that he was indeed in the hands of an opponent for whom he was no match.

CHAPTER III

Had the two combatants not been so deeply absorbed in their own affairs at this juncture, they could not have failed to discover the presence of the three women; for at the sight of her master at the mercy of his opponent, as she supposed, Bastienne forgot her caution, and could not suppress a scream. Further demonstrations on her part, however, were instantly nipped in the bud--if one can use the expression with reference to Bastienne's good Picard mouth--by a prompt and determined application of her mistress's hand. Marguerite's quick eye had seen that her uncle was still uninjured; and at all hazards the secret of their hiding-place must not be revealed. She held Bastienne firmly till she felt the old servant's lips tighten under her hand, in sign of submission to the inevitable; and then, with a whispered warning, and without releasing her grip on the woman's arm, she turned her whole attention once more to the scene before them. Marie, in the meantime, had never taken her eyes from La Pommeraye, and was following his every movement with breathless interest.

The two men stood foot to foot, eye to eye, watching each other as only trained swordsmen can watch. Back and forth they swayed in the clear light of the moon, their swords clashing and singing as they parried or thrust. De Roberval's face, wrinkled and hard at any time, had now an expression of diabolical hate. He was as pale as the walls of the houses in the moonlight, and his eyes glowed with a murderous fire. He seemed reckless of his life, and savagely thrust at his opponent every time any part of his body was left unguarded.

It was otherwise with La Pommeraye. Confident of victory, he smiled calmly at the other's rage, occasionally darting in a straight thrust at some part of his antagonist's body, that told Roberval how entirely he was in the good-natured giant's power. The moonlight, that made the old man's face cold and stony, seemed to illuminate with warmth the handsome features of the younger.

Roberval noted the smile as the moonlight shone full upon La Pommeraye, and his fury increased. Fiercely he flew at him, and thrust with the dexterity which had made him the most distinguished swordsman among the n.o.bles of France. La Pommeraye had to move with lightning swiftness to avoid a wound; and once, indeed, he felt a stinging sensation near his heart, and knew by the warmth at his side that blood was flowing.

It would not do to trifle longer. As if a whirlwind had entered his arm, his weapon flashed hither and thither with such rapidity that Roberval forgot his hate, and thought only of keeping off the attack. But it was useless. Once, twice, thrice, he was touched, touched so lightly that no blood was drawn, and just as he was about to lower his sword to his generous opponent, who was evidently playing with him, he caught a look in La Pommeraye's eye that told him he was once more about to attempt disarming him.

Such a disgrace and humiliation must be averted. He braced himself for the struggle. He determined if possible to bind his antagonist's blade.

But to no avail. The trick was an old one, and ordinarily an easy one to outwit; but the arm that now practised it was a giant's. De Roberval vainly tried to hold his sword. His wrist seemed suddenly to burn and crack, and a circle of light flashed before his eyes. It was his sword, torn from his grasp, and hurled over the wall into the water. A quivering silver arc marked the spot where it had gone down. La Pommeraye stood with the same imperturbable air as before. He was smiling as only a victor can, but there was neither scorn nor pity in the smile.

"It shall never be told me that I was beaten," said Roberval impetuously, as he s.n.a.t.c.hed a jewel-hilted dagger from his girdle.

"Hold your hand," said La Pommeraye, sternly, as he saw the frenzied man direct the weapon towards his own breast. "Put up that toy, and be a man. You have been fairly beaten, as has every one who has crossed swords with me. It is no disgrace; but no one shall know what has pa.s.sed here to-night unless from your own lips."

But his words came too late. The dagger, flashing downwards, struck the breast of the infatuated man, who fell apparently lifeless.

A wild scream rang out from behind the wall. It was Bastienne, no longer to be restrained. But neither Marguerite nor Marie heeded her now, for both had rushed to the side of the prostrate swordsman.

He had fallen forward on his face, and Marguerite flung herself upon his body. La Pommeraye had seen men die before; he had killed a few in his day, both on the field of battle and in single combat; but never before had he had the same stirring of conscience that he now experienced at the spectacle of this beautiful girl overcome by the sorrow he had brought upon her. But his weakness was only for a moment.

"Mademoiselle," he said, approaching, "perhaps we may still be able to do something for your uncle. His wound may not be fatal."

He bent over to a.s.sist her to rise, but she was on her feet unaided, and drew back from him with the one scornful word she had flung at him the night before, "Coward!"

La Pommeraye stooped over the lifeless figure at his feet. As he turned it reverently over he noticed that there was no mark of a death-struggle on the limbs or face. Death seemed to have taken sudden hold. But no! he felt the heart, it still beat! The dagger had never pierced the breast!

His eye suddenly caught the jewel-hilted weapon lying on the ground.

"Mademoiselle," he exclaimed, seizing it joyfully, "your uncle has only fainted. Here is his dagger untarnished with his blood."

He held it out to where she had been standing a moment before, but she had disappeared, and in her place stood De Pontbriand.

"I am glad to hear you say that," remarked the latter. "It would have been a severe blow to his niece had he fallen by your sword."

A groan told that De Roberval was recovering. If La Pommeraye was a good swordsman, he was an equally cheerful liar. He realised fully how deeply Roberval was stung by the disgrace of his defeat.

"There was little danger of his falling before my sword," he said; "his cloak, which had been cast on the ground, became entangled with his feet, and he fell; and rather than give an opponent the satisfaction of saying he had spared his life, he drew his dagger, as I should have done under similar circ.u.mstances, and would have ended his own existence, but the hand of Providence has in some strange manner intervened."

He was still kneeling beside the fallen man, and somewhat to his surprise he felt his hand clutched and pressed, showing that his explanation had been understood and accepted.

De Roberval was soon completely restored to consciousness. He attempted to rise, but when he put his right hand on the ground he fell back with a groan. La Pommeraye saw in an instant what was wrong. The strength of his effort to disarm De Roberval had broken one of his wrist bones.

"Sieur," he said, "you must have fallen heavily, your wrist is broken."

Such was the case, and it was a fortunate mishap for the House of Roberval. It was this that saved his life. He had drawn his dagger, raised it for the blow, but in the process of bringing it down he had twisted the broken wrist so severely that the sudden pain had caused him to lose consciousness, and the dagger, barely touching his breast, fell beneath him in the dust.

"Monsieur, let me help you to your feet," said La Pommeraye, and, as he spoke, placed his strong arm under the reclining n.o.bleman, and raised him as if he had been a babe.

De Roberval was as one in a dream. He seemed hardly to realise what had happened until he saw Cartier and Pontbriand standing by.

"What brings you here?" he almost shouted.

"We heard a woman's scream," replied Cartier, "and fearing that some unfortunate fair one had met with a mishap, we rushed to the rescue."

"A woman's scream! What woman?" and De Roberval looked hastily round; but the three women had discreetly disappeared.

Before he could say aught further he was interrupted by La Pommeraye, who gallantly came up, and, holding out an unsheathed sword, said: "Let me, Monsieur, present you with your weapon, which you lost when you so unfortunately slipped on your cloak."

It was a lie, and De Roberval's look showed that he was aware of it.

Possibly he was dimly conscious of having already committed himself by his silence to his generous opponent's explanation, or his wounded vanity may have been too strong to allow him to confess his humiliation before the other two men; at all events he replied, with an attempt at dignity: "I thank you, Monsieur, but you must sheathe it for me, as my right hand is helpless."

Without a word La Pommeraye raised the sheath, and drove the blade home.

"You are generous," said De Roberval, "and I hope you may learn to be as honourable as you are generous. I am wounded, and will soon recover; but the kiss that burns on my niece's cheek is a wound from which she will never recover."

At the words a sword flashed from its scabbard, and De Pontbriand stood fierce and defiant before his friend.