ne pas recevoir,’” he quoted, as he parried my counter-thrust with debonair ease.
Try as I would I could not get behind that wonderful guard of his. It was easy, graceful, careless almost, but it was sure. His point was a gleaming flash of light, but it never wavered from my body line.
A darker cloud obscured the moon, and by common consent we rested.
“Three minutes for good-byes,” said Volney, suggestively.
“Oh, my friends need not order the hearse yet—at least for me. Of course, if it would be any convenience——”
He laughed. “Faith, you improve on acquaintance, Mr. Montagu, like good wine or—to stick to the same colour—the taste of the lady’s lips.”
I looked blackly at him. “Do you pretend——?”
“Oh, I pretend nothing. Kiss and never tell, egad! Too bad they’re not for you too, Montagu.”
“I see that Sir Robert Volney has added another accomplishment to his vices.”
“And that is——?”
“He can couple a woman’s name with the hint of a slanderous lie.”
Sir Robert turned to Creagh and waved a hand at me, shaking his head sorrowfully. “The country boor in evidence again. Curious how it will crop out. Ah, Mr. Montagu! The moon shines bright again. Shall we have the pleasure of renewing our little debate?”
I nodded curtly. He stopped a moment to say:
“You have a strong wrist and a prodigious good fence, Mr. Montagu, but if you will pardon a word of criticism I think your guard too high.”
“Y’are not here to instruct me, Sir Robert, but——”
“To kill you. Quite so!” he interrupted jauntily. “Still, a friendly word of caution—and the guard is overhigh! ’Tis the same fault my third had. I ran under it, and——” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Was that the boy you killed for defending his sister?” I asked insolently.
Apparently my hit did not pierce the skin. “No. I’ve forgot the nomination of the gentleman. What matter? He has long been food for worms. Pardon me, I see blood trickling down your sword arm. Allow me to offer my kerchief.”
“Thanks! ’Twill do as it is. Art ready?”
“Lard, yes! And guard lower, an you love me. The high guard is the one fault— Well parried, Montagu!—I find in Angelo’s pupils. Correcting that, you would have made a rare swordsman in time.”
His use of the subjunctive did not escape me. “I’m not dead yet,” I panted.
I parried a feint une-deux, in carte, with the parade in semicircle, and he came over my blade, thrusting low in carte. His laugh rang out clear as a boy’s, and the great eyes of the man blazed with the joy of fight.
“Gad, you’re quick to take my meaning! Ah! You nearly began the long journey that time, my friend.”
He had broken ground apparently in disorder, and by the feel of his sword I made sure he had in mind to parry; but the man was as full of tricks as the French King Louis and with incredible swiftness he sent a straight thrust in high tierce—a thrust which sharply stung my ribs only, since I had flung myself aside in time to save my vitals.
After that came the end. He caught me full and fair in the side of the neck. A moist stifling filled my throat and the turf whirled up to meet the sky. I knew nothing but a mad surge of rage that he had cut me to pieces and I had never touched him once. As I went down I flung myself forward at him wildly. It is to be supposed that he was off guard for the moment, supposing me a man already dead. My blade slipped along his, lurched farther forward, at last struck something soft and ripped down. A hundred crimson points zigzagged before my eyes, and I dropped down into unconsciousness in a heap.
Chapter V
The Hue and Cry
Languidly I came back to a world that faded and grew clear again most puzzlingly, that danced and jerked to and fro in oddly irresponsible fashion. At first too deadly weary to explain the situation to myself, I presently made out that I was in a coach which lurched prodigiously and filled me with sharp pains. Fronting me was the apparently lifeless body of a man propped in the corner with the head against the cushions, the white face grinning horridly at me. ’Twas the face of Volney. I stirred to get it out of my line of vision, and a soft, firm hand restrained me gently.
“You are not to be stirring,” a sweet voice said. Then to herself its owner added, ever so softly and so happily, “Thaing do Dhia (Thank God.) He iss alive—he iss alive!”
I pointed feebly a leaden finger at the white face over against me with the shine of the moon on it.
“Dead?”
“No. He hass just fainted. You are not to talk!”
“And Donald Roy——?”
The imperious little hand slipped down to cover my mouth, and Kenneth Montagu kissed it where it lay. For a minute she did not lift the hand, what time I lay in a dream of warm happiness. A chuckle from the opposite seat aroused me. The eyes in the colourless face had opened, and Volney sat looking at us with an ironic smile.
“I must have fallen asleep—and before a lady. A thousand apologies! And for awaking so inopportunely, ten thousand more!”
He changed his position that he might look the easier at her, a half-humorous admiration in his eyes. “Sweet, you beggar my vocabulary. As the goddess of healing you are divine.”
The flush of alarmed maiden modesty flooded her cheek.
“You are to lie still, else the wound will break out again,” she said sharply.
“Faith, it has broken out,” he feebly laughed, pretending to misunderstand. Then, “Oh, you mean the sword cut. ’Twould never open after it has been dressed by so fair a leech.”
The girl looked studiously out of the coach window and made no answer. Now, weak as I was—in pain and near to death, my head on her lap with her dear hand to cool my fevered brow—yet was I fool enough to grow insanely jealous that she had used her kerchief to bind his wound. His pale, handsome face was so winning and his eyes so beautiful that they thrust me through the heart as his sword had been unable to do.
He looked at me with an odd sort of friendliness, the respect one man has for another who has faced death without flinching.
“Egad, Montagu, had either of us driven but a finger’s breadth to left we had made sure work and saved the doctors a vast deal of pother. I doubt ’twill be all to do over again one day. Where did you learn that mad lunge of yours? I vow ’tis none of Angelo’s teaching. No defense would avail against such a fortuitous stroke. Methought I had you speeding to kingdom come, and Lard! you skewered me bravely. ’Slife, ’tis an uncertain
