The Count had arisen and drawn his sword, which gleamed in the moonlight as he turned its point toward the unknown mouth the roving river sought.
“This blade,” he said, reseating himself and patting the steel with affection, “flashed gayly for the King upon the Rhine. Alas for me, it drove me at the last to seek my fortunes in a weary land.”
“You drew it, then, for something other than the cause of France?” remarked La Salle, suspiciously.
“For that of which we spoke, which no tongue voices but all hearts have felt. I drew it once for love—et voilà tout!”
“You killed a Spaniard, then?”
“They speak the truth, monsieur, who say your mind is quick. She—as I told you—came to France with Spain’s great embassy. He, a strutting grandee, proud and bigoted, came with the suite, holding some post that made his person safe. The tool of diplomats, the pet of priests, my rival—as he was—defied my hate. ’Tis said they were betrothed, Don Josef and— But hold! her name I need not speak.”
The Count remained silent for a time, watching the moon-kissed waters at his feet. La Salle, grim, reticent, but not unsympathetic, gazed steadfastly at his companion’s delicately-carved face. A stern knight-errant, who sought to win an empire for his king, lay wasting the midnight hours to listen to a love-tale from a flippant tongue.
“’Twas with this blade,” went on de Sancerre after a time, waving his sword from side to side in the moonlight, “that I pierced his heart—and broke my own. For which all praise be to Saint Maturin, who watches over fools.”
“He was no coward, then?” questioned La Salle.
“Not when his pride was pricked,” answered de Sancerre. “Great wars have been begun with less diplomacy than I employed to make my insult drive him to his steel. But, Spanish blood is hot, and, truth to tell, my tongue can cut and thrust. Her eyes were on us at a fête champêtre when, standing by his side, I spoke the words that made him mine at midnight—’neath a moon like this. There’s little left to tell. He knew a Spanish trick or two, but, monsieur, he was a boy! In the moonlight there his eyes were so like hers I lost all pity—and—so—he died.”