rossed 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 ant