I know not who was lying, for I could not tell whether the blade that flashed now in the duke's hand came from his sleeve or from his belt. But if he had not drawn before he had drawn now and rushed at Lucas. He dodged and they circled round each other, wary as two matched cocks. Lucas was strictly on the defensive; Mayenne, the less agile by reason of his weight, could make no chance to strike. He drew off presently.
"I'll have your neck wrung for this," he panted.
"For what, monsieur?" asked Lucas, imperturbably. "For defending myself?"
Mayenne let the charge go by default.
"For coming to me with the tale of your failures. Nom de dieu, do I employ you to fail?"
"We are none of us gods, monsieur. You yourself lost Ivry."
Mayenne backed over to his chair and seated himself, laying his knife on the table in front of him. His face smoothed out to good humour—no mean tribute to his power of self-control. For the written words can convey no notion of the maddening insolence of Lucas's bearing—an insolence so studied that it almost seemed unconscious and was thereby well-nigh impossible to silence.
"Sit down," bade the duke, "and tell me."
Lucas, standing at the foot of the table, observed:
"They turned you out of your bed, monsieur, to see me. It was unnecessary severity. My tale will keep till morning."