The scrivener snapped his fingers in the air. Then like a showman he took the dagger by the point. He gave it a twist and sent it spinning towards the floor. It struck and buried itself in the wood, where it stood quivering like a living thing. “‘The highwayman of Tours!’” he echoed after them. “The only man who ever had the courage to stand before the Abbot of Chalonnes and flaunt him to his face. That dagger there I took from him—with a dozen of his followers at his back. I was the only man in all the country round to meet the Dwarf of Angers—alone—unarmed—in the woods—at night. I killed the Dwarf and threw his body into the waters of the Loire.” He stopped and laughed a long, weird, tormenting laugh that rang through the room like the echo of a ghost. “The man who is my enemy is foredoomed to die!” A chill crept along my spine. A sullen look spread over the faces of my two captors. They exchanged glances once again and grinned. “You can’t fool us with talk like that,” said one. “We’re men.” The scrivener whistled a quick, sharp note and with the ease of a kitten sprang upon the table. “There is a price upon my head!” he called. Then he pointed to the dagger. “If either of you has the boldness to collect it, let him pluck that weapon from the floor.” The fellow who had spoken brightened up. He lurched forward. His huge body bent over and his arm reached out to take the scrivener at his word. But his slow brain had reckoned without thought to the consequences. He had no sooner taken a step when the scrivener raised himself on the balls of his feet. He shot through the air with the straightness and speed of an arrow. He landed with all his weight on the back of his enemy. His one hand encircled his throat. The other, by a calculation as unerring as it was quick, caught the dagger by the hilt. There followed a struggle that I shall not soon forget. The scrivener twisted his lithe body like a snake. He squirmed around and before I could wink was on top of his foe. He was smiling as though he was highly pleased with the dagger now raised ready for the descending blow. He knew that the second fellow would not allow his companion to be killed. He halted the weapon so that it rested not more than an inch from his opponent’s throat. “One move and you’re a dead man!” he cried. Then he looked to the side. He saw the other coming on with venom in his eyes. “Take your choice,” he called to him. “Lay a finger on me and you’re this man’s murderer!” The fellow stopped. In the twinkling of an eye the scrivener sprang to his feet. He faced the two with his face lit up and a confidence that was amazing. The man with the wounded hand slid his hand into his shirt. He drew forth a long knife with a curved blade. He ran his tongue over his lips to moisten them and with one bound made for his enemy.