se of the duel, and my very
life, belike, hung on its issue.

They were both admirable swordsmen, yet it was clear from the first
where the palm lay. Anything nimbler, lighter, easier than the
sword-play of Yeux-gris I never hope to see in this imperfect world.
The heavier adversary was hot, angry, breathing hard. A smile hovered
over Yeux-gris's lips; already a red disk on Gervais's shirt showed
where his cousin's sword had been and would soon go again, and deeper. I
had forgotten my bruise in my interest and delight, when, of a sudden,
one whom we all had ignored took a hand in the game. Gervais's lackey
started forward and knocked up Yeux-gris's arm. His sword flew wide, and
Gervais slashed his arm from wrist to elbow.

With a smothered cry, Yeux-gris caught at his wound. Gervais, ablaze
with rage, sprang past him on his creature. The man gaped with
amazement; then, for there was no time for parley, leaped for the door.
It was locked. He turned, and with a look of deathly terror fell on his
knees, crouched up against the door-post. Gervais lunged. His blade
passed clean through the man's shoulders and pinned him to the door. His
head fell heavily forward.

"Have you killed him?" cried Yeux-gris.

"By my faith! I meant to," came the answer. Gervais was bending over the
man. With an abrupt laugh he called out: "Killed him, pardieu! He has
come off cheap."

He raised the fellow's limp head, and we saw that the sword had passed
just over his shoulder, piercing the linen, not the flesh. He had
swooned from sheer terror, being in truth not so much as scratched.

Gervais turned to his cousin.

"I never meant that foul trick. It was no thought of mine. I would have
turned the blade if I could. I will kill Pontou now, if you say the
word."

"Nay," answered the other, faintly; "help me."

The blood was pouring from his arm; he was half swooning. Gervais and I
ran to him and, between us, bathed the cut, bandaged it with strips torn
from a shirt, and made a sling of a scarf. The wound was long, but not
deep, and when we had poured some wine down his throat he was himself
again.

"You will not bear me malice for that poltroon's work, Etienne?" Gervais
asked, more humbly than I ever thought to hear him speak. "That was a
foul cut, but it was no fault of mine. I am no blackguard; I fight fair.
I will kill the knave, if you like."

"You are ungrateful, Gervais; he saved you when you needed saving,"
Yeux-gris laughed.