"By heaven!" he exclaimed, "I believe that you do _not_ know me, or you would not dare to suppose that I would suffer you to follow a lady who seeks not your presence or society." "Let me go, St. Renan!" returned the other fiercely, laying his hand on his dagger's hilt. "Let me go, villain, or you shall rue it!" "Villain!" Raoul repeated, calmly, "villain! It is so you call me, hey?" and he did instantly release him, drawing his sword as he did so. "Draw, De Pontrien--that word has cost you your life!" "Yes, villain!" repeated the other, "villain to you teeth! But you lie! it is your life that is forfeit--forfeit to my brother's honor!" "Ha! ha!" laughed Raoul, savagely. "Ha-ha-ha-ha! your brother's honor! who the devil ever heard before of a pandar's honor--even if he were Sir Pandarus to a king? Sa! sa!--have at you!" Their blades crossed instantly, and they fought fiercely, and with something like equality for some ten minutes. The Chevalier de Pontrien was far more than an ordinary swordsman, and he was in earnest, not angry, but savage and determined, and full of bitter hatred, and a fixed resolution to punish the familiarity of Raoul with his brother's wife. But that was a thing easier proposed than executed; for St. Renan, who had left France as a boy already a perfect master of fence, had learned the practice of the blade against the swordsmen of the East, the finest swordsmen of the world, and had added to skill, science and experience, the iron nerves, the deep breath, and the unwearied strength of a veteran. If he fought slowly, it was that he fought carefully--that he meant the first wound to be the last. He was resolved that De Pontrien never should return home again to divulge what he had seen, and he had the coolness, the skill, and the power to carry out his resolution. At the end of ten minutes he attacked. Six times within as many seconds he might have inflicted a severe, perhaps a deadly wound on his antagonist; and he, too, perceived it, but it would not have been surely mortal. "Come, come!" cried De Pontrien, at last, growing impatient and angry at the idea of being played with. "Come, sir, you are my master, it seems. Make an end of this." "Do not be in a hurry," replied St. Renan, with a deadly smile, "it will come soon enough. There! will that suit you?" And with the word he made a treble feint and lounged home. So true was the thrust that the point pierced the very cavity of his heart. So strongly was it sent home that the hilt smote heavily on his breast-bone. He did not speak or groan, but drew one short, broken sigh, and fell dead on the instant. "The fool!" muttered St. Renan. "Wherefore did he meddle where he had no business? But what the devil shall I do with him? He must not be found, or all will out--and that were ruin."