"Mademoiselle," he exclaimed, seizing it joyfully, "your uncle has only fainted. Here is his dagger untarnished with his blood."
He held it out to where she had been standing a moment before, but she had disappeared, and in her place stood De Pontbriand.
"I am glad to hear you say that," remarked the latter. "It would have been a severe blow to his niece had he fallen by your sword."
A groan told that De Roberval was recovering. If La Pommeraye was a good swordsman, he was an equally cheerful liar. He realised fully how deeply Roberval was stung by the disgrace of his defeat.
"There was little danger of his falling before my sword," he said; "his cloak, which had been cast on the ground, became entangled with his feet, and he fell; and rather than give an opponent the satisfaction of saying he had spared his life, he drew his dagger, as I should have done under similar circumstances, and would have ended his own existence, but the hand of Providence has in some strange manner intervened."
He was still kneeling beside the fallen man, and somewhat to his surprise he felt his hand clutched and pressed, showing that his explanation had been understood and accepted.
De Roberval was soon completely restored to consciousness. He attempted to rise, but when he put his right hand on the ground he fell back with a groan. La Pommeraye saw in an instant what was wrong. The strength of his effort to disarm De Roberval had broken one of his wrist bones.
"Sieur," he said, "you must have fallen heavily, your wrist is broken."
Such was the case, and it was a fortunate mishap for the House of Roberval. It was this that saved his life. He had drawn his dagger, raised it for the blow, but in the process of bringing it down he had twisted the broken wrist so severely that the sudden pain had caused him to lose consciousness, and the dagger, barely touching his breast, fell beneath him in the dust.