“All right,” said Cartoner. “Haven't had a chance yet.”
And he gave a low laugh, which Deulin had only heard once or twice before in all the years that they had known each other.
“That's the best,” he said, half to himself, “of dealing with a man who keeps his head. Here they come, Cartoner—here they come.”
And he went out to meet them.
But only one came forward. They knew that unless they kept together, Deulin could not hold them both in check. The very fact of their returning to the attack—thus, with a cold-blooded courage—showed that they were Poles. In an instant Deulin divined their intention. He ran forward, his blade held out in front of him. Even at this moment he could not lay aside the little flourish—the quick, stiff pose—of the fencer.
His sword made a dozen turns in the air, and the point of it came down lightly, like a butterfly, on the man's shoulder. He lowered it further, as if seeking a particular spot, and then, deliberately, he pushed it in as if into a cheese.
“Voila, mon ami,” he said, with a sort of condescension as if he had made him a present. As, indeed, he had. He had given him his life.
The man leaped back with a little yelp of pain, and his knife clattered on the stones. He stood in the moonlight, looking with horror-struck eyes at his own hand, of which the fingers, like tendrils, were slowly curling up, and he had no control over them.
“And now,” said Deulin, in Polish, “for you.”
He turned to the other, who had been moving surreptitiously round towards Cartoner, who had, indeed, come out to meet him; but the man turned and ran, followed closely by his companion.