"Now, Louis, we may as well stand aside. We have done our best to stop this quarrel, and to prevent what I cannot but consider a most unequal contest from taking place."
The last words were galling, in the extreme, to Raoul de Fontaine. Monsieur D'Estanges stood high at court, was a gentleman of unblemished reputation, and often appealed to on questions of honour; and this declaration that he considered the combat to be an unequal one was the more irritating, since he was himself conscious of the fact. However, he could not recoil now but, with an angry expression of face, drew his sword and stood on guard.
Philip was no less ready. The easy attitude he assumed, with his weight for the most part on his left leg, differed so widely from the forward attitude then in fashion among French duellists, that Monsieur D'Estanges, convinced that he knew nothing of swordplay, shrugged his shoulders pityingly. The moment, however, that the swords grated against each other; and Philip put aside, with a sharp turn of the wrist, a lunge with which his opponent intended at once to finish the combat, the expression of his face changed.
"The lad did not speak boastfully, when he said he was a fair swordsman," he muttered to himself. "He does not fight in our fashion, but at least he knows what he is about."
For some minutes the fight continued, Raoul's temper rising higher and higher, as he found every attack baffled by a foe he had despised, and who refused to fall back even an inch, however hotly he pressed him. He had at first intended either to wound or disarm him, but he soon fought to kill. At last there was a fierce rally, ending by Philip parrying a home thrust and, returning it with lightning swiftness, running Raoul de Fontaine through the body with such force that the hilt of his sword struck against his chest, and he sank lifeless to the ground.
"By our Lady, young gentleman," Monsieur D'Estanges exclaimed, "but you have done well! You said that you were a fair swordsman. Truly you are of the highest class. Raoul's temper has led him into many a duel, and he has always wounded or killed his man. Who could have thought that he would receive his death blow at the hands of a youth?
"But whom have we here? Peste! This is awkward."
As he spoke, Count Darbois, the governor of Agen, with a body of troopers, rode up. He had ridden to within a mile or two of Nerac and, questioning persons from the town, learned that everything was quiet there, and that no fresh body of Huguenots had arrived. He was on his way back when, hearing the clash of swords, he had ridden into the wood to inquire into its meaning.
"What is this?" he exclaimed.
"Why, what is this, Monsieur De Fontaine? Your cousin, Count Raoul, dead!"