“You lie! I but defended an innocent life. Your brother fell by his own rashness. It is one thing to assassinate your enemy—that requires little bravery; it is another to face your foe like a man and give him a chance for his life. My sword is longer than your stiletto, and I could murder you easily.”
He unbuckled his sword belt and threw it with the sword and scabbard upon the stone floor. Then he drew his stiletto, and the two men stood facing each other, for each knew that but one of them could leave that room alive.
Cromillian was the stronger man, but much heavier and slower in his movements than Pascal, who was muscular and agile. For a time it was a drawn battle. Skill parried strength, and strength overcame skill. Then happened that which has happened so often before—it was a question of endurance, and the stronger man could endure the most. Pascal lost his head and struck wildly, aimlessly.
“I could kill you now,” said Cromillian, “but I will spare your life if you will tell me where I can find Vandemar.”
Pascal pointed to the dungeon door. “He is there with my sister Vivienne. She loves him, and I have given her to him.”
“She is no longer a Batistelli,” croaked Old Manassa; “she is a Della Coscia. Let them die together.”
“Open that door,” said Cromillian, with an air of command.
“You forget,” said Pascal, “that this is my castle. I am master here and take orders from no one.”
“I forget nothing,” replied Cromillian. “I know that you are a heartless, inhuman wretch, and the would-be murderer of two innocent hearts. I say to you again, open that door.”
“I would not if I could,” was Pascal’s defiant response; “but the instructions for opening the dungeon door have been lost—the door can never be opened.”