Of a sudden there came a burst of voices, the door toward the Council Chamber was dashed open, and Count Epping rushed in, and all the Ministers behind him.
Madeline Spencer drew back and lowered her sword; the Princess sprang to the fire-place and rescued the Book, smothering the flames with the hearth rug; but Lotzen ground out an oath and flung himself with fresh fierceness at the Archduke.
At first even the imperturbable Prime Minister had been too astonished to act; now he came slowly forward, his old, lean face aglow with the joy of the combat and the music of the steel. Then he stopped and stood, watching, head slightly forward, lips half parted, eyes shining, fingers playing lovingly over his own hilt. Ah! it was a good fight to look upon; a noble fight, indeed; such masterly sword play he had never seen, nor was ever like to see again; the swift attacks, the fierce rallies, the marvellous agility, the steady eye, the steel wrist. And then, the nerve of him who was losing, and must know it; for Lotzen was losing—surely losing. Twice the Archduke had driven him around the table; now he forced him slowly back ... back ... back ... to the wall ... against it ... tight against it.
“Yield, cousin!” he said; “it’s your last chance.”
But the Duke only smiled mockingly and fought on.
With an appealing cry Madeline Spencer darted toward them.
“Spare him, Armand!” she pleaded, “spare him!”
The Archduke stepped out of distance, but with point still advanced.
“Take him!” he said, “take him, and joy with him!”
Ferdinand of Lotzen slowly raised his sword in salute.