He was terribly angry, but his voice was steady and even.
There was a space of silence. Then the leader said something to one of the men, who immediately cast aside his shield and advanced with his rapier.
It was a short conflict. Coleman disarmed his antagonist with ease in less than a minute.
Another man came on and shared the same fate, with the addition of a prick through the wrist of the sword-arm.
This was exhilarating to Coleman in his exasperation at being made the butt of some mysterious trick.
"Come next," he cried; "I want the best of you—and the best is a coward. Come on!"
Evidently the mystic band now felt the gravity that the occasion was assuming. The maskers looked to their leader.
"Don't stand there afraid," sneered Coleman; "come on and get your turn. Who's next?"
One after another responded, only to fare badly. As yet, however, all had escaped without deadly hurt, when the leader himself made ready to fight. Those who had come to grief were quietly cared for by others, and all seemed to treat the proceedings as by no means startling or even unusual.
When the leader threw aside his shield and took off his tall plume-covered hat, Coleman was able to recognize Judge Favart de Caumartin, more by his form and bearing than by any disclosure of his features.