“No number is unlucky that gives me your presence,” I said lightly.
In the moonlight we stripped to our shirts. It was nearly as light as day.
“This is a mistake,” my granite General said. He was thinking of the risk to his scheme and the ease with which both men could have been arrested.
“No, General. This may be reparation,” I answered.
Prince Otho was an excellent swordsman. That I knew at once. His wrist was supple and strong as steel. We engaged and fought slowly, cautiously. He had a dangerous, wicked riposte which I guarded twice, more by luck than by skill. Undoubtedly he was my master. I smiled grimly at this. I was sorry, because I wished to speak to Marie. And yet, perhaps, this was a better way. Ah, a scratch! I had turned too late, and the sting in my shoulder told me I was hit.
“He is hit! It is enough!” cried General Hartzel.
“A mere scratch!” I answered hotly, and we engaged again. It was evident the Prince was waiting for an opening to kill. Two opportunities for serious wounds he passed. Then suddenly he made a quick lunge over my guard. I stepped back quickly; he could not recover his guard; he fell back. Hartzel leaned over him.
“That ends it,” he said complacently. “Four weeks, at least, in bed. This is an accident, Baron.”