“You?” sneered the dragoon of the Dauphiness’s Regiment, with kindling eye.
“I am the man,” rejoined Fritz, with his national peculiarity of being the more cool while the more roused up.
The gentleman had his sword out in a minute. But Fritz, without any emotion at the sight of the steel, or calling—perhaps he was alone in the house—plucked a short pike off a trophy of arms and attacking Philip like a single-stick player rather than a fencer, shivered the court sword.
The captain yelled with rage, and sprang to the panoply to get a weapon for himself. But at this, a secret door opened, and the count appeared enframed in the dark doorway.
“What is this noise, Fritz?” he asked.
“Nothing, my lord,” replied the German, but placing himself with the pike on guard so as to defend his master, who, standing on the stairs, was half above him.
“Count Fenix,” said Philip, “is it the habit in your country for visitors to be received by the pikepoints of your varlets or only a peculiar custom of your noble house?”
At a sign Fritz lowered his weapon and stood it up in a corner.
“Who are you?” queried the count, seeing badly by the corridor lamplight.
“I am Philip of Taverney,” replied the officer, thinking the name would be ample for the count’s conscience.