"If you think so I am ready to return satisfaction."

Boucher folded his arms across his chest, his powerful wrists crossed,
and stared at Robert, his lips wrinkling in ugly fashion. It was a look
like that which Tandakora had given him, and there in the background was
the huge and sinister figure of the Indian, wrapped in his blanket of
flame. He also saw de Mezy and he too was sneering in insolent triumph.
De Courcelles, from whom he had a right at that time to expect
friendship, or at least support, had drawn farther away.

"I am a guest here," said Robert, "and I seek no trouble. I don't wish
to mar the hospitality of Monsieur Bigot by being a party to a quarrel
in his garden."

Again that light laugh came from a point somewhere in the dusk and again
Robert's face blazed, but he still held himself under firm control.

"You were ready enough to fight Count Jean de Mezy this morning," said
Boucher, "knowing that he was not in condition and that you had a skill
with the sword not suspected by him."

The truth of it all flashed upon Robert with the certainty of
conviction. The entire situation had been arranged and de Courcelles was
one of its principals. He had been brought into the garden that a fight
might be forced upon him there. Boucher was a bravo and undoubtedly a
great swordsman. He understood now the secret of those thick flexible
wrists and of the man's insulting manner. His blood became ice in his
veins for a moment or two, but it was good for him, cooling his head and
quickening his mind. His heart beat with regularity and steadiness.

"I thank you, Monsieur de Courcelles," he said, "for your action in this
matter, which I now understand. It's true that it departs in some
respects from what I have understood to be the code and practice of a
French gentleman, but doubtless, sir, it's your right to amend those
standards as you choose."

De Courcelles flushed, bit his lip and was silent.

"Very pretty! Very pretty!" sneered Boucher, "but French gentlemen are
the best judges of their own manners and morals. You have your sword,
sir, and I have mine. Here is a fine open space, well lighted by the
moon, and no time is better than the present. Will you draw, sir?"

"He will not," said a voice over Robert's shoulder, which he instantly
recognized as that of the hunter. He felt suddenly as if a great wall
had been raised for his support. He was no longer alone among plotting
enemies.

"And why will he no