As Lemercier rode up, he perceived a gentleman standing near the stone. His back was towards him, and he was apparently intent on caressing his charger, whose reins he had thrown negligently over his arm.
Lemercier thought he recognised the hat, edged with white feathers, the full-bottomed wig, and the peculiar lacing of the white velvet coat, and on the stranger turning he immediately knew his friend of the preceding night.
"Bon jour, my dear sir," said Lemercier
"A good morning." replied the other, and they politely raised their little cocked hats.
"I had some misgivings when monsieur did not return to me," said the Frenchman. "Sir William has accepted my challenge?"
"Yes, monsieur, and is now before you," replied the other, springing on horseback. "I am Sir William Hope, of Hopetoun, and am here at your service."
"You!" exclaimed the Frenchman, in tones of blended astonishment and grief. "Ah! unsay what you have said. I cannot point my sword against the breast of my best benefactor—against him to whom I owe both honour and life. Can I forget that night on the plains of Arras? Ah, my God! what a mistake: what a misfortune. Ah, Athalie! to what have you so unthinkingly urged me?"
"Think of her only, and forget all of me, save that I am your antagonist, your enemy, as I stand between thee and her. Come on, M. Lemercier, do not forget your promise to mademoiselle; we will sheathe our swords on the first blood drawn."
"So be it then, if the first is thine," and unsheathing their long and keen-edged rapiers, they put spurs to their horses, and closing up hand to hand, engaged with admirable skill and address.
The skill of one swordsman seemed equalled only by that of the other.