“No,” said the Master of Stair, advancing on him. “Think you I need to use craft—to get those papers from you?”
“Not while I live,” answered Sir Perseus firmly, and he made a step toward the door.
But the Master of Stair stood before it.
“Will you cry for help?” he demanded. “It will make no difference. The poor knaves here cannot aid you—”
Sir Perseus stepped impulsively back and drew.
“I think you threw—spy at me,” he said through his teeth. “What word then for you—you thief of men’s confidence?”
On this last word their swords rose and clashed.
“Did you think,” breathed Sir John passionately, above the sword play, “that we had not men that would do for England what you do for France—did you not reckon that we might risk and dare something to keep what we had now—as well as you to regain what you had lost—did you think we were fools or cowards? You and your crew of broken schemers—you and your damned French king—ah!” He was rapidly forcing his adversary back against the wall. Sir Perseus’s hurried defense could not cope with the fury of his attack; he was the stronger man, the better swordsman; Sir Perseus backed desperately into the window-seat.
“Fools we’ve been—fools,” he muttered, white-lipped.
“Yes, fools,” flashed the Master of Stair. “To think you could fit the Pope’s yoke about England’s neck again or give us back a King of follies we flung to make Europe sport—so—”