"To kill you. Quite so!" he interrupted jauntily. "Still, a friendly word of caution--and the guard _is_ overhigh! 'Tis the same fault my third had. I ran under it, and----" He shrugged his shoulders. "Was that the boy you killed for defending his sister?" I asked insolently. Apparently my hit did not pierce the skin. "No. I've forgot the nomination of the gentleman. What matter? He has long been food for worms. Pardon me, I see blood trickling down your sword arm. Allow me to offer my kerchief." "Thanks! 'Twill do as it is. Art ready?" "Lard, yes! And guard lower, an you love me. The high guard is the one fault-- Well parried, Montagu!--I find in Angelo's pupils. Correcting that, you would have made a rare swordsman in time." His use of the subjunctive did not escape me. "I'm not dead yet," I panted. I parried a feint une-deux, in carte, with the parade in semicircle, and he came over my blade, thrusting low in carte. His laugh rang out clear as a boy's, and the great eyes of the man blazed with the joy of fight. "Gad, you're quick to take my meaning! Ah! You nearly began the long journey that time, my friend." He had broken ground apparently in disorder, and by the feel of his sword I made sure he had in mind to parry; but the man was as full of tricks as the French King Louis and with incredible swiftness he sent a straight thrust in high tierce--a thrust which sharply stung my ribs only, since I had flung myself aside in time to save my vitals. After that came the end. He caught me full and fair in the side of the neck. A moist stifling filled my throat and the turf whirled up to meet the sky. I knew nothing but a mad surge of rage that he had cut me to pieces and I had never touched him once. As I went down I flung myself forward at him wildly. It is to be supposed that he was off guard for the moment, supposing me a man already dead. My blade slipped along his, lurched farther forward, at last struck something soft and ripped down. A hundred crimson points zigzagged before my eyes, and I dropped down into unconsciousness in a heap. V THE HUE AND CRY Languidly I came back to a world that faded and grew clear again most puzzlingly, that danced and jerked to and fro in oddly irresponsible fashion. At first too deadly weary to explain the situation to myself, I presently made out that I was in a coach which lurched prodigiously and filled me with sharp pains. Fronting me was the apparently lifeless body of a man propped in the corner with the head against the cushions, the white face grinning horridly at me. 'Twas the face of Volney. I stirred to get it out of my line of vision, and a soft, firm hand restrained me gently. "You are not to be stirring," a sweet voice said. Then to herself its owner added, ever so softly and so happily, "Thaing do Dhia (Thank God.) He iss alive--he iss alive!" I pointed feebly a leaden finger at the white face over against me with the shine of the moon on it. "Dead?"