is that fellow Fulke," Sir John said. "I heard he had managed
to obtain a commission in the army of the Landgrave of Hesse. You
must keep a smart lookout, Master Rupert, for his presence bodes
you no good. He is in fitting company; that big German officer next
to him is the Graff Muller, a turbulent swashbuckler, but a famous
swordsman--a fellow who would as soon run you through as look at
you, and who is a disgrace to the Margrave's army, in which I
wonder much that he is allowed to stay."

"Who is the fellow you are speaking of?" Dillon asked.

"A gentleman with whom our friend Rupert had a difference of
opinion," Sir John Loveday laughed. "There is a blood feud between
them. Seriously, the fellow has a grudge against our friend, and as
he is the sort of man to gratify himself without caring much as to
the means he uses, I should advise Master Holliday not to trust
himself out alone after dark. There are plenty of ruined men in
these German regiments who would willingly cut a throat for a
guinea, especially if offered them by one of their own officers."

"The scoundrel is trying to get Muller to take up his quarrel, or I
am mistaken," Lord Fairholm, who had been watching the pair
closely, said. "They are glancing this way, and Fulke has been
talking earnestly. But ruffian as he is, Muller is of opinion that
for a notorious swordsman like him to pick a quarrel with a lad
like our friend would be too rank, and would, if he killed him,
look so much like murder that even he dare not face it; he has
shaken his head very positively."

"But why should not this Fulke take the quarrel in his own hands?"
Dillon asked, surprised. "Unless he is the rankest of cowards he
might surely consider himself a match for our little cornet?"

"Our little cornet has a neat hand with the foils," Lord Fairholm
said drily, "and Master Fulke is not unacquainted with the fact."

"Why, Rupert," Dillon said, turning to him, "you have never said
that you ever had a foil in your hand!"

"You never asked me," Rupert said, smiling. "But I have practised
somewhat with the colonel my grandfather. And now it is time to be
off, Dillon; we have to walk back."

Four days later, as Rupert Holliday was standing in the barrack
yard, his troop having just been dismissed drill, a trooper of the
1st dragoons rode into the yard, and after asking a question of one
of the men, rode up to him and handed him a note.

Somewhat surprised he opened it, and rea