“You must not hurt him, Paul! He has been very nice to me!” and this in a voice so clear that Shafto himself heard it as he came out with the swords. It ruffled him, but he bowed low to her in acknowledgment of her interest. “They are of the same length. Choose, monsieur!” said he, holding them out to me. I took the nearest—and knew as soon as the hilt was in my hand that it was an honest weapon, of English make, something slow in action and lacking subtlety of response, but adequate to the present enterprise. Lanthorns were brought, and so disposed by Marc’s orders that the light should fall fairly for one as for the other. The Englishman had regained his good temper,—or a civil semblance of it,—and marked the preparations with approval. “You have had abundant experience, I perceive, in the arbitrament of gentlemen,” said he. “My cousin has, in particular, monsieur,” replied Marc dryly. Whereupon Mr. Shafto turned upon me a scrutiny of unaffected interest. A moment more, and the swords set up that thin and venomous whispering of theirs. Now, what I am _not_ going to do, even to please Yvonne, is—undertake to describe that combat. She wishes it, because under my instruction she has learned to fence very cunningly herself. But to me the affair was unpleasant, because I saw from the first a brave gentleman, and a good enough swordsman as these English go, hopelessly overmatched. I would not do him the discredit of seeming to play with him. He fenced very hotly, too. He wanted blood, being bitter and humiliated. After a few minutes of quick play I thought it best to prick him a little sharply in the arm. The blood spurted scarlet over his white sleeve; and I sprang back, dropping my point. “Are you satisfied, monsieur?” I asked. “No, never! Guard yourself, sir!” he cried angrily, taking two quick steps after me. During the next two minutes or so he was so impetuous as to keep me quite occupied; and I was about concluding to disarm him, when there came a strange intervention. It was most irregular; but the wisest of women seem to have small regard for points of stringency in masculine etiquette. At a most knowingly calculated moment there descended between us, entangling and diverting the points of our weapons,—what but a flutter of black lace! “I will not have either of you defeated!” came Yvonne’s voice, gayly imperious. “You shall _both_ of you surrender at once, to me! There is no dishonour, gentlemen, in surrendering to a woman!” It was a most gracious thought on her part, to save a brave man from humiliation; and my worship of her deepened, if that were possible. As for the elegant Mr. Shafto, he was palpably taken aback, and glowered rudely for a space of some seconds. Then he came to himself and accepted the diversion with good grace. With a very low bow he presented his sword-hilt to Yvonne, saying: “To you, and to you only, I yield myself a prisoner, Mademoiselle de Lamourie,”