“I have often heard that the cattle in Normandy were better housed than their masters,” he began. “It’s even colder here than it is out of doors.” “That is one reason why we are so healthy,” replied my brother looking him full in the face. “And that is why we are so strong.” The stranger broke out into a loud laugh. “Why, man,” he exclaimed, “you have more wit than I imagined.” He bowed low again. “It is to your credit, sir.” André yawned. “It is indeed cold,” he said. “But your tongue has a chill all of its own. Do you know, my friend, I should have had a fire going by this time if you——” But he stopped short, knowing that as a host he should not be the first to openly offend. But the stranger tossed back his head. He clapped my brother soundly on the shoulder. “I shall finish it for you,” he cried. “You meant to say, ‘—if I had not come into the house.’” He flung his arm in the air in a wild gesture of mirth. “You too have a tongue in your head. To tell you truly I am amazed, for at first sight of you I thought you nothing but a country dullard!” With that he stared brazenly into André’s face. Then with the lightness of a feather, he spun around and threw himself into one of the chairs. My brother went as white as chalk. For a second he seemed stupefied. Then a redness swept over him. He walked deliberately to the rack that held the arms. The old Lord of Gramont halted where he had been pacing half way across the room and looked sharply back. As for me my breath stuck in my throat. André returned bearing a naked sword in his hand. “There is no light outside of the house,” he said. “We must finish, what we have begun, here.” The other arose. The same taunting smile played around his mouth. “I had not thought you would have the courage,” he remarked. And then, “Will you stain the floor of the house with your own blood?” My brother took his position but, for a second, the old Count of Gramont interfered. “Will you tell us your name?” he asked the stranger. “In case anything happens, it will be well to know.” “My name?” repeated our visitor laying his finger-tips on his chest, and with the shadow of a bow. “I am called the Sieur De Marsac. To all with whom I am acquainted, a faithful servant of his Majesty, the King.” There were no words more. The swords rang in the air. De Marsac began as though it were only a fancy play, my brother with all the seriousness of his nature. There was a difference between the two that was soon seen. Our visitor had the advantage in litheness and in trickery. André was the better in strength of wrist and in driving into his enemy with force and steadiness.