But at his action she sprang away like a mad thing, dodged him, avoided him, then leapt suddenly upon a chair and snatched a rapier from a group of swords arranged in a circle upon the wall. The light fell full upon her ashen face and eyes of horror. She was beside herself.
All her instincts urged her to resistance. She had always shrunk from this man. If she could only hold him at bay for a little—if she could only resist long enough—surely she heard the feet of the murderers upon the corridor already! It would not take them long to batter down the door and take her life!
As she sprang to the ground again, Pierre spoke. The frown had gone from his face; it wore a faint, ironical smile. His eyes, alert, unblinking, marked her every movement as the eyes of a lynx upon its prey. He did not appear in the least disconcerted. There was even a sort of terrible patience in his attitude, as though he already saw the end of the struggle.
"Would it not be wiser, mademoiselle," he said, "to reserve your steel for an enemy?"
She met his piercing look for an instant as she compelled her white lips to answer. "You are the worst enemy that I have."
He threw back his head with an arrogant gesture very characteristic of him. "By your own choice, mademoiselle," he said.
"Yes," she flung back passionately. "I prefer you as an enemy."
He laughed at that—a fiendish, scoffing laugh that made her shrink in every nerve. Then, with unmoved composure, he walked to the mantelpiece and took up one of the foils that lay there.
"Now," he said quietly, "since you are determined to fight me, so be it! But when you are beaten, Mademoiselle Stephanie, do not ask for mercy!"
But she drew back sharply from his advance. "Take one of those rapiers," she said.