Boucher was still unable to
break through that guard of living steel, and when they paused a second
time for breath each was still untouched.

"You are a swordsman, I'll admit that," said Boucher.

"Yes, a better than the raw lad, Gaston Lafitte, or Raoul de
Bassempierre who was ill, and a better than a third whom I recall."

"What do you mean, mummer?"

"There was a certain Raymond de Neville who played at dice with another
whom I could name. Neville said that the other cheated, but he was a
great swordsman while Neville was but an indifferent fencer, and the
other slew him. Yet, they say Neville's charges were true. Shall I name
that man, Boucher?"

Boucher, livid with rage, sprang at him.

"Mummer!" he cried. "You know too much. I'll close your mouth forever!"

Now it seemed to Boucher that a very demon of the sword stood before
him. His own fierce rush was met and he was driven back. The ghosts of
the boy, Gaston Lafitte, of the sick man Raoul de Bassempierre, and of
the indifferent swordsman, Raymond de Neville who had been cheated at
cards, came back, and they helped Willet wield his weapon. His figure
broadened and grew. His blade was no longer of steel, it was a strip of
lightning that played around the body and face of the dazzled bravo. It
was verily true that the hands of four men grasped the hilt, the ghosts
of the three whom he had murdered long ago, and Willet who stood there
in the flesh before him.

A reluctant buzz of admiration ran through the crowd. Many of them had
come from Paris, but they had never seen such swordsmanship before.
Whoever the hunter might be they saw that he was the master swordsman of
them all. They addressed low cries of warning to Boucher: "Have a care!"
"Have a care!" "Save your strength!" they said. But de Galisonniere
stood, tight-lipped and silent. Nor did Robert and Tayoga feel the need
of saying anything to their champion.

Now Boucher felt for the first time in his life that he had met the
better man. The great duelist who had ruffled it so grandly through the
inns and streets of Paris looked with growing terror into the stern,
accusing eyes that confronted him. But he did not always see Willet. It
was the ghosts of the boy, Gaston Lafitte, of the sick man Raoul de
Bassempierre and of the indifferent swordsman, Raymond de Neville, that
guided the hunter's blade, and his forehead became cold and wet with
perspiration.

De Galisonniere had moved in the crowd, un