My brother went as white as chalk. For a second he seemed stupefied. Then a redness swept over him. He walked deliberately to the rack that held the arms. The old Lord of Gramont halted where he had been pacing half way across the room and looked sharply back. As for me my breath stuck in my throat.
André returned bearing a naked sword in his hand.
“There is no light outside of the house,” he said. “We must finish, what we have begun, here.”
The other arose. The same taunting smile played around his mouth.
“I had not thought you would have the courage,” he remarked. And then, “Will you stain the floor of the house with your own blood?”
My brother took his position but, for a second, the old Count of Gramont interfered.
“Will you tell us your name?” he asked the stranger. “In case anything happens, it will be well to know.”
“My name?” repeated our visitor laying his finger-tips on his chest, and with the shadow of a bow. “I am called the Sieur De Marsac. To all with whom I am acquainted, a faithful servant of his Majesty, the King.”
There were no words more. The swords rang in the air. De Marsac began as though it were only a fancy play, my brother with all the seriousness of his nature. There was a difference between the two that was soon seen. Our visitor had the advantage in litheness and in trickery. André was the better in strength of wrist and in driving into his enemy with force and steadiness.
The fight began with a few light thrusts and parries that on each side were only trials of the other’s skill. Then of a sudden De Marsac unleashed a savage attack. His sword came darting in like the fangs of a snake with the point directed towards André’s heart. A part of a second and it would have been too late, but my brother, who, I saw, was making sure of his defense, swung his weapon to the side and caught his enemy’s blade, steel against steel. The swords locked at the pommels like the horns of deer and for a second the two stood glaring into each other’s eyes.