“Well, Missr Wentwort’, what you zink now?” he asked, triumphantly. “What do I think? I think you could have let Harrington come on too, and then have beaten us all,” was the gay reply. “Ah, no,” returned Monsieur Bagasse, “not wis Missr Harrin’ton.” “Come, Meeser Haynton,” said Vukovich; “you an’ Mossieu Bagasse. Oblise me and dese sentilmen.” At once there was a clamor of beseechings, to which the parties addressed presently yielded. Witherlee, who hated to see Harrington fence, because he fenced so well, quietly slipped away from the room. Fisk and Palmer stopped, and gathered with the others around the fencing-place. Meanwhile, Monsieur Bagasse took the violets from his jacket and laid them away; then put on a plastron—an honor he had not paid to any other of his pupils that day, and resumed his mask. Harrington took off his coat and vest, and arrayed himself also in mask and plastron. They took their places, and after performing the beautiful elaborate salute of the exercise, fell upon guard. Every eye was riveted on the stalwart grace of Harrington as he crossed blades with his antagonist. As for the French gladiator, excited by the coming contest with one who could call into play all his powers, his attitude was superb, and his transformation more complete than before. The contest was begun by a feint, quick and light, on the part of the fencing-master, and in a second it was pass and parry with a rapturous flash and clash of steel. Presently the right foot of Bagasse beat the floor with the loud rat-tat of the appel, and foot and arm and body sprang forward with a terrific lunge. Harrington, immovable as a pillar, met it with a swift twirl of the wrist, and the next second both combatants were still, with their foils locked in a complete spiral from hilt to point. Disengaging presently, the combatants saluted amidst suppressed murmurs of applause, crossed blades once more, and stood with each point seeking an opening. In a moment or two, Bagasse feinted again, and lunged in tierce. Harrington parried in seconde, letting his point fly up and his arm extend in the parry, and pushing home, his foil became a curve with the button resting on the bosom of the fencing-master.