u, sir," acquiesced Sir Percy.

For the third and last time the two opponents rattled the dice-box and
threw. Chauvelin was now absolutely unmoved. These minor details quite
failed to interest him. What mattered the conditions of the fight which
was only intended as a bait with which to lure his enemy in the open?
The hour and place were decided on and Sir Percy would not fail to come.
Chauvelin knew enough of his opponent's boldly adventurous spirit not
to feel in the least doubtful on that point. Even now, as he gazed with
grudging admiration at the massive, well-knit figure of his arch-enemy,
noted the thin nervy hands and square jaw, the low, broad forehead and
deep-set, half-veiled eyes, he knew that in this matter wherein Percy
Blakeney was obviously playing with his very life, the only emotion that
really swayed him at this moment was his passionate love of adventure.

The ruling passion strong in death!

Yes! Sir Percy would be on the southern ramparts of Boulogne one
hour after sunset on the day named, trusting, no doubt, in his usual
marvellous good-fortune, his own presence of mind and his great physical
and mental strength, to escape from the trap into which he was so ready
to walk.

That remained beyond a doubt! Therefore what mattered details?

But even at this moment, Chauvelin had already resolved on one great
thing: namely, that on that eventful day, nothing whatever should be
left to Chance; he would meet his cunning enemy not only with cunning,
but also with power, and if the entire force of the republican army
then available in the north of France had to be requisitioned for the
purpose, the ramparts of Boulogne would be surrounded and no chance of
escape left for the daring Scarlet Pimpernel.

His wave of meditation, however, was here abruptly stemmed by Blakeney's
pleasant voice.

"Lud! Monsieur Chauvelin," he said, "I fear me your luck has deserted
you. Chance, as you see, has turned to me once more."

"Then it is for you, Sir Percy," rejoined the Frenchman, "to name the
conditions under which we are to fight."

"Ah! that is so, is it not, Monsieur?" quoth Sir Percy lightly. "By my
faith! I'll not plague you with formalities.... We'll fight with our
coats on if it be cold, in our shirtsleeves if it be sultry.... I'll
not demand either green socks or scarlet ornaments. I'll even try and
be serious for the space of two minutes, sir, and confine my whole
attention--the product of my infinit