"Your fate will be the same, therefore you must defend yourself. You rogue," he went on through his teeth, "you dare to make aspersions on my countrywoman! You dare--you!--such as you!--to raise your eyes to Sylvia Thorne and, to make yourself safe with her, as you suppose you can do, you intend to denounce me to the French here. So be it. Only there shall be no betrayal. Either you remove me from your path now and for ever--now, this very instant--or I put an end to all your hopes and all your intended treacheries." "You had best beware," Francbois said, and Bevill perceived that there was a laugh in his voice--a laugh that was half jeer, half sneer. Also he observed, and the observation surprised him, that there was no fear in the man. If he was treacherous and crafty--a villain--at least he was a bold one. "Far best," Francbois continued. "I have crossed the Alps in my time. Monsieur may have heard of the _stoccala lunga_ and the _botte secrete_ and other strange passes taught in Italy----" "Ay," said Bevill, "as well as the _botte des laches!_ I will essay them. Doubtless it is the latter I have most to fear. Monsieur I am your servant. _En garde_." And now, through the calmness of the night, the two women must have heard--sorely they heard--a sound not often familiar to women's ears, yet one that, once heard, especially in such days, could scarcely be misunderstood, even if not fully recognised. A sound not unlike the hiss of the hooded snake as it glides towards its victims--or, as one of those old Italian fencing-masters has described it, "water hissing on hot iron." Also they must have heard the "tic-tac" that steel makes as it grates against steel--a sound that is not noise. And once, also, they must have heard a voice, the voice of Francbois, ejaculate, "Ah!" "They are engaged," the Comtesse whispered hurriedly to Sylvia. "They----" "Engaged!" the girl replied. "He and that man! Oh, Radegonde, hasten! Come! Come, ere it is too late." "Ay," Madame de Valorme exclaimed, "Francbois is a master of fence. Monsieur de Belleville's life is too good for such as he to take." Then, together, they sped down the garden path and through the gate into the lane. But now the scraping of the steel had ceased, while the obscurity of the night beneath the overhanging tree was such that they could scarcely perceive the figures of the two men. Yet that they were there they knew. The darkness of the lane could not disguise their presence. "Stop!" the Comtesse said, advancing towards the deeper gloom that stood out in that darkness and testified to, at least, the figure of one man. "Stop, I command you. Monsieur de Belleville, hold your hand. Francbois, if you injure him, you are lost!" While uttering these sentences in a clear voice, though in a somewhat incoherent manner, she, followed by Sylvia, reached the spot where the men were.