“Not so, cousin!” said the Princess, flinging aside the curtain, “you lose—it is we who win.”
For a moment the Duke stood staring, too amazed to speak, and Mrs. Spencer, with a sharp cry, fled to his side; then, as he saw the end of his dream, the passing of his hopes, the fierce and fiery spirit, that was always burning deep in his soul, burst through the gyves of studied equanimity his stern will had imposed.
“Not yet!” he cried, “not yet!” and turning quickly he tossed the Book into the big chimney behind him where a wood fire burned.
“Come on!” he taunted, flashing out his sword, “come on, cousin Armand!—there’s your crown, come get it!”
“Look to the Book, Dehra!” the Archduke called, and sprang at Lotzen, with a joyful smile. “At last!” he said, and the fight began.
“Push the Book farther into the fire, Madeline!” the Duke ordered, the words timed to the beat of the steel.
Dropping her cape Mrs. Spencer, with the easy hand of a practiced fencer, whipped out the sword she was wearing, in her disguise as an officer, and was speeding to obey, when Dehra caught up one of Colonel Moore’s swords from the corner and rushed upon her.
“Guard yourself, Duchess!” Lotzen cried; and she swung around just in time to throw herself between the Princess and the fireplace. Instantly their blades rang together.
The Archduke heard, and out of the side of his eye he saw, and his brow wrinkled in anxiety. Spencer was no novice; she, too, he knew, had learned the gentle art of the foils in her youth, and under French maîtres, and she was not to be despised even by one so skilful as the Regent. He had little doubt that he could kill the Duke, but what profit in it if Dehra died. He hesitated to speak, it might disconcert her, and yet he must warn her.
“Watch her play in tierce,” he said, in the most casual tone; and almost shouted for joy, when he heard Dehra’s little laugh, and her voice calm and easy.