care for life, and I would gladly die, to see your blood flow. Look,
it's flowing down your face; it's dripping from your hand, and there
shall be more dripping soon. On guard!"

He suddenly attacked with a fierce energy, forcing Fournel back upon the
wall. He was not a first-class swordsman, but he had far more knowledge
of the weapon than his opponent, and he had no scruple about using his
knowledge. Fournel fought with desperate alertness, yet awkwardly, and
he could not attack; it was all that he could do, all that he knew how
to do, to defend himself. Twice again did the Seigneur's weapon draw
blood, once from the shoulder and once from the leg of his opponent, and
the blood was flowing from each wound. After the second injury they
stood panting for a moment. Now the outside world was shut out from
Fournel's senses as it was from Louis Racine's. The only world they knew
was this cool room, whose oak floors were browned by the slow searching
stains of Time, and darkened by the footsteps of six generations that had
come and gone through the old house. The books along the walls seemed to
cry out against the unseemly and unholy strife. But now both men were in
that atmosphere of supreme egoism where only their two selves moved, and
where the only thing that mattered on earth was the issue of this strife.
Fournel could only think of how to save his life, and to do that he must
become the aggressor, for his wounds were bleeding hard, and he must have
more wounds, if the fight went on without harm to the Seigneur.

"You know now what it is to insult a Frenchman--On guard!" again cried
the Seigneur, in a shriller voice, for everything in him was pitched to
the highest note.

He again attacked, and the sound of the large swords meeting clashed on
the soft air. As they struggled, a voice came ringing through the