Just then the baronet's foot slipped on the edge of a book of verses which Mistress Beatrix had left on the floor. For a second he was swerved from his balance; and, when he recovered, it was to feel the warm blood running down his breast from a slight incision in his left shoulder. But his recovery was as masterly as it was swift, and the Frenchman found himself more severely pressed than before, despite the advantage he possessed in the superior length of his sword. The little wound counted for nothing.
Just what the outcome of the fight would have been, if an untimely interruption in the person of Maggie Stone had not intervened, it is hard to say. Perhaps D'Antons' youth would have claimed the victory in the long run, or perhaps the baronet's excellent composure. In skill they were nicely matched, though the Englishman displayed superiority enough to even the difference in the length of the blades. But why take time for idle surmises? Maggie Stone, looking in, all unheeded, at the open door, saw her beloved master engaged in a desperate combat with a person whom she despised as well as feared. She saw the sodden stain of blood on her master's doublet. In her hand she held a skillet which she had just borrowed from Dame Trigget. Without waiting to announce herself, she rushed into the room and dealt Captain d'Antons a resounding whack on the head with the iron bowl of the utensil. The long sword fell from the benumbed fingers and clanged on the floor. With a low, guttural cry, the Frenchman followed it, and sprawled, unconscious, at the feet of the surprised and indignant baronet.
CHAPTER XVII. THE CONFIDENCE OF YOUTH
Master Kingswell and his party returned from their daring reconnoitre early in the afternoon. They had not met with the enemy, though they had found the camp and torn down the temporary lodges. After that they had followed the broad trail of the retreat for several miles, and had discharged the cannon twice into the inscrutable woods. Their daring had been rewarded by the capture of about two hundred pounds of smoked salmon and dried venison.
Both Kingswell and William Trigget were unable to account for the fact that the savages had not attacked them in the cover of the woods. In reality they owed their bloodless victory to the presence of the little cannon. That third and last discharge of slugs, on the day of the big fight, had killed three of the braves, wounded five more, and inspired an hysterical terror in the hearts of the rest. But for that, the hidden enemy would not have been content with playing a waiting game and with the attempted killing of one man each night; and neither would they have retired, so undemonstratively, before the advance of the five. But, despite their fear of the cannon, they had no intention of giving up the siege of the fort. They placed trust in the darkness of night and their own cunning.
Kingswell and the elder Trigget were drawn aside by Sir Ralph. The baronet looked less care-haunted than he had for years.
"D'Antons and I have broken our truce," he whispered, "and behold, the heavens have not fallen,—nor even the poor defences of this plantation." He smiled cheerfully. "The great captain alone has come to grief," he added. "Maggie Stone saved him from my hand by felling him herself with some sort of stew-pan. I was frantically angry at the time, but am glad now that I did not have to kill the rogue."
"Such cattle are better dead, sir," remarked Trigget, coolly.