“Your armor, De Marsac,” he cried with a mocking laugh, “makes it difficult. To kill you I must strike you in the neck or face.”
De Marsac, at the first blood, had drawn back. He was gathering his sword in his hand for another trial, when a dark shadow came towards us from behind the trees. It was the figure of a man with an oaken staff in his hand. And before any of us could stir he called out in a deep voice as though he was applauding the stroke he had just seen the single word: “Bravo!”
I gave a little start, for the suddenness of his appearance surprised me. And as though they had heard a command both my brother and De Marsac lowered their blades and gazed, one with curiosity, the other with alarm at the stranger.
He was clad entirely in black from the close-fitting cap upon his head to the toes of his fine leather boots. His doublet encircled his chest with the tightness of a drum and was of a rich cloth, durable but severely plain. As far as I could see he was without weapons of any sort save the knotted staff which he had in his hand.
He was what you might call of medium height and build. But the longer you looked at him, the more you grew aware of some hidden strength that lay within. His face was square and large boned and of a ruggedness of color that bespoke a life in the open. His eyes were deep set in their sockets. When he looked at you the steadiness of his gaze was midway between a frown and a scowl. He moved like a man who was accustomed to time his actions to the moment, but withal with such lightness and ease that constantly reminded you that, at the slightest need, he could spring forward with the litheness of a tiger and strike with the swiftness of lightning.
He remained for a while standing looking from my brother to De Marsac. Then, of a sudden he laughed. But it was a laugh that had no mirth in it but which rang like a mocking echo through the trees.
“Still at your old tricks, I see, De Marsac,” he said as he advanced. “You have profited little from the lesson that I so lately taught.”
De Marsac’s hand shook. He rested his sword with the point upon the ground. He shifted uneasily, glancing in one direction then another. The flush on his face died out to the whiteness of parchment.
He breathed. “Ah!” he cried, but his voice choked. “You!”
The man in black folded his arms across his chest and let his club swing lightly from between his fingers.