the song of the birds, and the smell of ripening fruit and grain, should
be invaded by this tragic absurdity, this human fury which must spend
itself in blood.

Fournel's mind was conscious of this feeling, this sense of futile,
foolish waste and disfigurement, even as the Seigneur said "Three!"
and, rushing forward, thrust.

As Fournel saw the blade spring at him, he dropped on one knee, caught it
with his left hand as it came, and wrenched it aside. The blade
lacerated his fingers and his palm, but he did not let go till he had
seized the sword at his feet with his right hand. Then, springing up
with it, he stepped back quickly and grasped his weapon fiercely enough
now.

Yet, enraged as he was, he had no wish to fight; to involve himself in a
fracas which might end in tragedy and the courts of the land. It was a
high price to pay for any satisfaction he might have in this affair. If
the Seigneur were killed in the encounter--he must defend himself now--
what a miserable notoriety and possible legal penalty and public
punishment! For who could vouch for the truth of his story? Even if
he wounded Racine only, what a wretched story to go abroad: that he had
fought with a hunchback--a hunchback who knew the use of the sword,
which he did not, but still a hunchback!

"Stop this nonsense," he said, as Louis Racine prepared to attack again.
"Don't be a fool. The game isn't worth the candle."

"One of us does not leave this room alive," said the Seigneur. "You care
for life. You love it, and you can't buy what you love from me. I don't