“Flanconnade’s face showed me that he was aware of his antagonist’s force. After two passes, he tried his own peculiar plunging thrust in tierce (I never was quick enough for it myself, and always broke ground when I saw it coming), but this youth parried it in carte. In carte! by heavens! and Flanconnade was too good a fencer to dare try it again.” “In carte!” repeated the listeners, with varied accents of interest and admiration. “It’s incredible!” “It’s beautiful!” “That is _real_ fencing, and no sabre-play!” “Go on! Flanconnade had met with his match!” “More than his match,” resumed Bras-de-Fer. “In a dozen passes he was out of breath, and this youth had never moved a foot after his first traverse. I tell you his defence was beautiful; so close you could hardly see his wrist move, and he never straightened his arm but twice. The first time Flanconnade leaped out of distance, for it was impossible to parry the thrust; although, as far as I could see, he made a simple disengagement and came in outside. But the next time he drew our comrade six inches nearer, and I knew by his face he was as certain as I was that he had got him at last. “Bah! One—Two! That single disengagement—a lunge home; and I saw six inches of Chateau-Guerrand’s sword through our poor comrade’s back ere he went down. The youth wiped it carefully before he returned it, with a profusion of thanks, and found time, while Bouchon and his people gathered round the fallen man, to express his regrets with a perfect politeness to myself. “‘Monsieur,’ said he, ‘I am distressed to think your friend will not profit by the lesson he has had the kindness to accept. I am much afraid he will never dance again.’” “And where was the thrust?” asked Adolphe, a promising young fencer, who had been listening to the recital of the duel, open-mouthed. “Through the upper lung,” answered Bras-de-Fer. “In five minutes Flanconnade was as dead as Louis Quatorze! Here comes the Captain, gentlemen. It is time to fall in.” While he finished speaking, the little bugler blew an astonishing volume of sound through his instrument. The Musketeers fell into their places. The line was dressed with military accuracy. The standard of France was displayed; the ranks were opened, and Captain George walked through them, scanning each individual of that formidable band with a keen, rapid glance that would have detected a speck on steel, a button awry, a weapon improperly handled, as surely as such breach of discipline could have been summarily visited with a sharp and galling reprimand. Nevertheless, these men were his own associates and equals; many of them his chosen friends. Hardly one but had interchanged with him acts of courtesy and kindness at the bivouac or on the march. Some had risked life for him; others he had rescued from death in the field. In half an hour all would be on a footing of perfect equality once more, but now Captain George was here to command and the rest to obey.