De Mezy recovering himself, and assuming a defiant manner, took the part of Boucher's second. Willet removed his coat and waistcoat and handed them to Robert, beside whom Tayoga was now standing. Then he drew his sword and balanced it a moment in his hand, before he clasped it lightly but firmly by the hilt. Another long breath came from the crowd which had increased. Every man there was aware that something uncommon was afoot. Who and what Boucher was most of them knew, but the hunter was an unknown quantity, all the more interesting because of the mystery that enshrouded him. And the interest was deepened when they saw his swift, easy motion, his wonderful lightness for so large a man, and the manner in which the hilt of his sword fitted into his hand, as if they had long been brothers. "I call you all to witness once again," said Boucher, "that this quarrel was forced upon me, and that I had no wish to slay a wandering hunter of the Bostonnais." Willet made no reply for the present. He took his position and Boucher took his. The seconds gave the word, their swords clashed together, and they stepped back, each looking for an opening in the other's guard. Then it dawned upon the bravo that a swordsman stood before him. But he had not the slightest fear. He knew his own skill and strength. "It's strange that a hunter should know anything about the sword," he said, "but it seems that you do and the fact pleases me much. I would not have it said that I cut down an ignorant man." "And yet it might be said," replied the hunter. "Do you remember the boy, Gaston Lafitte, whom you fought behind the Luxembourg near twenty years ago?" The face of Boucher suddenly went deathly white, and, for a moment, he trembled. "Who are you, you mumming hunter?" he cried. "I know no Gaston Lafitte." "There you lie, Boucher. You knew him well enough and you can't forget him if you would. Your face has shown it. It was well that you had powerful friends then, or you would soon be completing your twentieth year in the galleys." The blood rushed back into Boucher's face until it was a blazing red, and he attacked savagely. Few men could have stood before that powerful and cunning offense, but Willet met him at every point. Always the flashing steel was turned aside, and the hunter, cool, patient and wary, looked like one who, in absolute faith, bided his time. A gasp came from the spectators. The omens had foretold something unusual, but here was more than they had expected or had hoped. The greatest swordsman whom France could send forth had been checked and held by an unknown hunter, by a Bostonnais, among whom one would not look for swordsmanship. They stopped for breath and Boucher from under his dark brows stared at the hunter. "Mummer," he said. "You claim to know something of me. What other lie about me can you tell?"