For a moment the two men stood looking at each other. Tournay was the first to speak: "You will fight me for that blow, Monsieur de Lacheville." The marquis gave a harsh laugh: "We do not fight lackeys--we whip them." "We are alone, and man to man you shall fight me with my weapons, monsieur le Marquis." Tournay spoke with a certain air of dignity and with a suppressed fierceness that made the marquis draw back; yet such was the nobleman's contempt for the man of humble birth that he made no response beyond flicking the whip which he still retained in his hand, and looking at him disdainfully. "You have a hunting-knife at your side; arm yourself," commanded Tournay sternly, at the same time drawing from beneath his hunting-blouse a long, keen blade. The marquis turned pale. "I do not fight with such a weapon," he faltered, looking about him as if in hopes of succor from his friends. "Then for once the low-born has the advantage," replied Tournay pitilessly, "and unless Heaven intervenes, I shall kill you for that blow." The blow itself was forgotten even as he spoke, and he felt a fierce joy as he whispered to himself, "If heaven so wills it, you shall never marry her, Marquis de Lacheville." There was no fire of revenge in his eyes as he advanced, but the marquis saw the light that burned there and, realizing his pressing danger, drew his own hunting-knife. There was a thrust and parry. Tournay closed in upon him, and the nobleman fell backward with a groan. The next instant Tournay threw aside the knife and stood looking with awe upon the prostrate body. The bushes behind him parted with a rustle and he looked over his shoulder to see the Marquis de St. Hilaire standing by him. "What's the matter?" inquired the latter sternly. "Has the marquis injured himself?" "He struck me," exclaimed Tournay, his face, except for a bright red line across the brow, deadly pale. "And I--I have killed him." St. Hilaire stooped down and undid the marquis's waistcoat, Tournay giving way to him. "He's not dead," said St. Hilaire, after a short examination. "Your blade struck the rib. He is not even fatally hurt, but has fainted." Tournay stood passive and silent. St. Hilaire rose to his feet and proceeded to cut some strips from his own shirt to make a bandage for de Lacheville's wound. "As far as you are concerned, you might as well have killed him," he said as he bound up the wound. "The penalty is the same." "I'm not afraid of the penalty." "Young man," said St. Hilaire, busying himself over the wound, "mount that horse of yours and ride away from this part of the country as fast as you can. I shall not see you." "I'm not a coward to run away."