“Better than you imagine,” answered my brother, with his voice lifting high among the trees. “By foul means young Charles of Gramont—that man’s son—was lured into a snare and carried off, a prisoner of him you choose to call your King. By fouler means still you crept into our house like a viper under pretense of hospitality. You picked a quarrel with me the moment you arrived, thinking you would kill me in the fight. You were thwarted in that. You tried to murder Henri there in the woods.” He cast a look in the direction of the old Count. A smile of scorn curled about his mouth when he faced De Marsac again. “The only plan of yours to succeed was in the slaying of an old man. Pshaw! I never dreamed a human being could stoop so low!” A flush of wrath colored De Marsac’s face, but slowly died out to a dead white. With his eyes shifting and shining, I thought with murder in them, he flouted my brother once again. “You are wasting words, my friend La Mar,” he sneered. “The whole brood of you is like a dying candle. It is hardly worth the snuffing out.” My brother heard this with the coolness and firmness of a rock. When the last syllable of De Marsac’s scorn faded in the air, André planted his feet squarely on the ground. Then, with his open palm, he struck that other a stinging blow across the face. “You have brought your sword, De Marsac,” he said in an even voice. “By good fortune I also have brought mine.” Here he laid his hand upon the pommel. “We were interrupted once. We can continue——” Before he could end the sentence the steel was in the air. Both men in their eagerness stepped in close to each other. The blades rang out as they crossed up to the hilts. They both drew back again and made a wicked exchange of thrust and parry. They played fast and furiously at arm’s length. They shifted swiftly on the loose ground. Then, after De Marsac missed his aim at a point above the heart, André touched him lightly with the point of his sword upon the ear. “Your armor, De Marsac,” he cried with a mocking laugh, “makes it difficult. To kill you I must strike you in the neck or face.” De Marsac, at the first blood, had drawn back. He was gathering his sword in his hand for another trial, when a dark shadow came towards us from behind the trees. It was the figure of a man with an oaken staff in his hand. And before any of us could stir he called out in a deep voice as though he was applauding the stroke he had just seen the single word: “Bravo!” I gave a little start, for the suddenness of his appearance surprised me. And as though they had heard a command both my brother and De Marsac lowered their blades and gazed, one with curiosity, the other with alarm at the stranger.