At last, Lotzen had driven me to action, in pointing his sword at my breast. If he touched it my steel vest would be disclosed, at once; and that was not to my mind. It would explain the failure of his bravo's dagger. More than that I did not care for. Doubtless, he was wearing one himself at that very moment. One usually ascribes to his enemy methods similar to one's own—and, as Lotzen dealt in assassination, he would expect me to do the same.
I waited a moment. Then, stepping quickly out of reach, I drew my own sword.
"Here it is, my Lord," I said. "Which end will you take?"
"The only end that you can give me, monsieur—the hilt," was the answer.
"Come and get it, then," I drawled.
He turned to the Gypsy.
"Will mademoiselle pardon me," he said.
"Will you be long?" she asked.
"Only a moment. I'll make it very short."
"I'll wait," she said carelessly.