"They are engaged," the Comtesse whispered hurriedly to Sylvia. "They----"
"Engaged!" the girl replied. "He and that man! Oh, Radegonde, hasten! Come! Come, ere it is too late."
"Ay," Madame de Valorme exclaimed, "Francbois is a master of fence. Monsieur de Belleville's life is too good for such as he to take."
Then, together, they sped down the garden path and through the gate into the lane.
But now the scraping of the steel had ceased, while the obscurity of the night beneath the overhanging tree was such that they could scarcely perceive the figures of the two men. Yet that they were there they knew. The darkness of the lane could not disguise their presence.
"Stop!" the Comtesse said, advancing towards the deeper gloom that stood out in that darkness and testified to, at least, the figure of one man. "Stop, I command you. Monsieur de Belleville, hold your hand. Francbois, if you injure him, you are lost!"
While uttering these sentences in a clear voice, though in a somewhat incoherent manner, she, followed by Sylvia, reached the spot where the men were.
That Bevill was uninjured the Comtesse and Sylvia recognised at once. He was standing upright in the middle of the path between the hedges, and in his hand he held his sword, point downwards to the earth; on which Sylvia murmured, "Thank Heaven above!" as she recognised this to be the case.
As for Francbois, he, too, was standing upright, only his sword was not in his hand; and now both ladies heard Bevill say:
"As for your lungas and bottes, Monsieur Francbois, truly they are not wonderful. A somewhat strong wrist and a trick of disengaging has defeated them. Pick up your weapon and sheathe it: we will renew the matter elsewhere."