Sir Geoffrey was an adroit swordsman and a practised duellist, but he soon found he had no mean antagonist in Robin. It was a match between the clever master of fence and the soldier accustomed to fight with his life in his hand, regardless of carte and tierce. At pose and trick Sir Geoffrey was the superior, but he was under the disadvantage of a tempestuous fury that prevented his making the best use of the dexterity that had brought him out victor from numerous encounters, while Robin’s coolness more than compensated for lack of finesse, and his skill as a swordsman soon proved itself. Sir Geoffrey, in spite of his passionate onslaught, was gradually beaten off the roadside and driven step by step to the door of the inn, where Robin, calm as though they had been merely fencing for amusement, goaded him into rashness with an exaggerated display of caution, and taking quick advantage of a wild lunge, disarmed him and sent his sword flying a dozen paces away. At the clash of weapons and sound of warfare, the inn-door opened a few inches and a bald old head peered cautiously out. "Gentlemen, gentlemen!" piped a trembling voice, "mine is a respectable house; pray you do not get me into trouble. I implore you, if there is murder to be done, for Heaven’s sake go a little farther up the road; there is a quiet spot, not five minutes’ walk away, where no one will disturb you while you kill each other." "It is all over, good mine host; ’twas but a friendly bout; no one is the worse for it by so much as a cut finger," laughed Robin. "Steve, pick up Sir Geoffrey’s sword and restore it to him. Escort him into the inn and treat him courteously until I call for you." As they disappeared, he turned to Prue, who had watched the duel with mingled fear and joy, and now hurried to his outstretched arms. "Oh! Robin; why didn’t you kill him?" she cried. "Why, ’twas a duel, dearest Prue, not an assassination—" he began. "He would have killed you if he could, I’ll be sworn," she protested. "I saw murder in his eye when he rushed upon us, and surely you would avenge the treachery that brought me to this lonely place with a man I detest, who desired to force or shame me into marrying him?" "I am almost grateful to him," murmured Robin, with his lips to hers, "that he brought you here and procured me the inestimable happiness of seeing you once more and bidding you farewell." "Is it indeed happiness for you to bid me farewell?" pouted Prue reproachfully. "Almost—compared to the unutterable anguish of leaving you, perhaps for ever, without." Prue drew herself away just far enough to look into his eyes with bewitching tenderness. "Does it grieve you so much to leave me, Robin?" she said softly. "Can you ask, Heart of my heart?" he replied. "You little know how sorely I am torn in twain by the duty that separates me from you." "Then why should we separate?" she cajoled, nestling against him.