They withdrew on the instant. The two swords came clear in the same second of time.
"Gabier de potence," cried D'Antons.
"Canaille," replied the baronet, blandly. Evidently the rasp of the steel had mended his temper. He even smiled a little at his adoption of his adversary's mother-tongue.
The men were excellently matched as swordsmen. But not more than half a dozen passes had been made and parried before Beatrix ran into the room, crying to them to put up their swords.
"Go back," said the baronet, with his eyes on D'Antons, "go back to your room, my daughter, and make a prayer for this fellow's soul. It will soon stand in need of a petition for God's mercy."
The girl went softly back and closed the door, in an effort to shut out the rasping and metallic striking of the blades. She prayed, but for strength to her father's wrist and not for the Frenchman's soul. She was afraid—desperately afraid. The truth of her father's skill in French sword-play had been kept from her. To her he was but a courteous, middle-aged gentleman who needed her care, and who had been maligned and robbed by the world into which he had been born. He was a good father. He had been a loving and considerate husband. She knelt beside her bed and beseeched God to succour him in this desperate strait.
In the meantime the fight went on in the outer room with more the air of a harmless bout for practice than a duel to the death. It was altogether a question of point and point, in the Continental manner, perfectly free from the swinging attack and clanging defence of the English style. The combatants were cool, to judge by appearances. Neither seemed in any hurry. The thrusts and lunges, though in fact as quick as thought, were delivered with a manner suggestive of elegant leisure.
"I believe you have the advantage of me by about three inches of steel," remarked the baronet, diverting a lightning thrust from its intended course.
"A chance of the game," replied D'Antons, smiling grimly.