Von Reiter stared at this tall young fellow in the gay uniform of the Guides. His hand, which had instantly moved toward his holster, remained suspended. "I am going out of that door," repeated Guild. "Will General Baron von Reiter be good enough to move aside?" The German's eyes narrowed. "So," he said very quietly, "it is not to be the hand after all, but an exchange of cards. I am not sorry--" With a movement too swift for the eye to follow, his sword was out and glittering in his hand, and he sprang on Guild, beating at his guard, raining blows like lightning. The girl had fallen against the table, one hand at her throat as though choking back the bursting cry of fright; her brain rang with the dissonance and metallic clamour; the flashing steel dazzled her. Two oak chairs fell crashing as Guild gave ground under the terrific onslaught; there was not a word spoken, not a sound except the infernal din of the sabres and the ceaseless shifting of armed heels on the floor. Suddenly von Reiter went down heavily; the doormat slipping under foot had flung him to the floor with a crash across a fallen chair. After a second or two he groaned. Guild looked down at him, bewildered, sword in hand--watched him as he struggled to his feet. The German was ghastly white. A fit of coughing shook him and he tried to disguise it with his hand. "Pick up your sabre!" motioned Guild. Von Reiter stooped, recovered his sword, adjusted the hilt to his hand. He coughed again, and there was a trace of blood on his lips, but his face was dead white. He looked very steadily at Guild. "Acknowledgments to the Comte d'Yvoir," he said with an effort; and the shadow of a smile touched his thin, grim lips. "Do I pass?" demanded Guild, as grimly. Von Reiter started to speak, and suddenly his mouth was full of blood. "Kurt," cried the girl in an agonized voice, "do you mean to kill him or that he is to kill _you_!--_here_--before my face?" "I mean--just--that!" He sprang at Guild again like a tiger, but Guild was on him first, and the impact hurled von Reiter against the table. His sabre fell clattering to the floor. [Illustration: "The impact hurled von Reiter against the table"] For a moment, white as a corpse, he looked at his opponent with sick eyes, then, suddenly faint, he slid into the great leather chair. There was more blood on his lips; Guild, breathing heavily, bent over and looked at him, ignorant of what had happened. Karen came and took his hand in hers. Then a slight groan escaped him and he opened his eyes. "Are you badly hurt?" asked Guild. "I'm a little sick, that's all. I think when I fell some ribs broke--or something----" "I meant fairly by you," said Guild miserably. "You played fair. It was bad luck--bad luck--that's all." He closed his pain-sickened eyes: "God, what luck," he mumbled--"really atrocious!" Guild, still holding his naked sword, drew his automatic with his left hand. Then he looked silently at Karen.