“On guard, sir,” I said through my set teeth. “Unless, indeed, you prefer to stand by and let your followers murder me. Undoubtedly it is your safest course.”
For a moment he hesitated, thinking, I make no doubt, of the fair girl who awaited him within the house, or perhaps he knew my reputation with the sword, that had made older men pause ere provoking me; but the sneering laugh with which I accompanied my last words caused him to flush with shame, as I had so intended.
“By heaven, no!” he burst out. “If you are bent on being killed, captain, I will oblige you. And you others, stand back. I have already an account to settle with this gentleman.”
And as, obedient to his command, they drew back a little on either side, leaving us a clearer space to wield our weapons, he sprang impetuously forward, and our blades clashed together. Yet scarcely had we exchanged a dozen passes ere my lady’s voice rang high above the music of our swords.
“Do not kill him! do not kill him!” she cried.
Whether it was that her sudden appearance within the circle, or that the events of the night had unstrung my nerves and robbed my hand of its cunning, I do not know. But on a sudden my sword wavered, and in that brief instant my opponent’s blade slipped within my guard and his point pierced my left breast. Yet still for a moment I did not fall. I staggered, indeed, against the wall, but my brain was so clear that the whole scene was printed indelibly upon my memory. The moonlight falling upon the ring of encircling faces, the young baronet staring stupidly at his encrimsoned blade, scarce crediting his victory, and, lastly, my lady’s white, stricken face, as, wide-eyed, she gazed at the fast reddening circle on my breast.
Suddenly the silence was broken by the sharp click of her fan as it fell upon the gravel walk.
“Madam,” I said huskily, taking two steps toward her, with earth and sky rocking in one red mist before my eyes, “you have dropped your fan; permit me to restore it to you.” And I fell heavily at her feet.
CHAPTER XI
OF WHAT BEFELL ON THE TERRACE
It was dark when my senses deserted me; it was still dark when they returned amidst the accompanying roar of the battlefield. I was stretched at full length upon the ground, pressed down by some heavy weight that rendered me powerless of moving hand or foot. Dimly through the black pall of smoke that enveloped me I thought that I recognised the outline of my old charger Gustavus, who had borne me in safety through the perils of many a stricken field, to meet his death at last amidst the rout of Teneffe. So it was Teneffe then! And yonder, where the fire flashed redly, that was the village itself, fired by the Dutch in that last charge in which a spent cannon-ball had struck me down. Aye, I could see them now—a dense mass of men, fighting, struggling, swaying to and fro amidst the blazing ruins of the hamlet. More, I could see Conde’s veterans—victors of Naerden, Rhimberg and the Rhine, recoiling before the berghers and traders of the Netherlands. Nearer to me, upon an eminence some five hundred paces distant, a battery of French artillery added their iron tongues to the increasing roar of the field. Faintly, whenever the smoke drifted, I could see the gunners working madly at their pieces; but as the retreat of their comrades before William’s stolid infantry developed rapidly into a rout, the guns ceased firing one by one, and limbering up, they advanced at a gallop upon the spot where—totally incapable of movement—I lay full in their path.