“One moment, if you please.  Sir Francis Falconnet, you know me?”

The thin-lidded eyes were veiled for an instant, and then he lied smoothly.

“Your pardon, Captain Ireton; I have not that honor.”

“’Tis a small matter, but you do lie this morning as basely as you lied to Richard Coverdale nine years agone,” said I; and then I signed Jennifer to give the word.

“Attention, gentlemen!  On guard!”

My enemy’s sword leaped to meet mine, and at the same instant I heard another click of steel betokening that the seconds had fallen to in a bit of by-play between themselves, as was then the fashion.  After that I heard nothing for a time save the sibilant whisperings of the Ferara and the German long-sword, and saw nothing save the fierce eyes glaring at me out of the midst of the plaster-marred smile.

Recreant though he was, I must do my adversary the justice to say that he was a skilful master of fence, agile as a French dancer, and withal well-breathed and persevering.  Twice, nay, thrice, before I found my advantage he had pricked me lightly with that extra inch of slender point.  But when I had fairly felt his wrist I knew that his heavier weapon would shortly prove his undoing; knew that the quick parry and lightning-like thrust would presently lag a little, and then I should have him.

Something of this prophecy of triumph he must have read in my eyes, for on the instant he was up and at me like a madman, and I had my work well cut out to hold him at the blade’s length.  I was so holding him; was, in my turn, beginning to press him slowly, when there came a drumming of hoofbeats on the soft turf, and then a woman’s cry.

I looked aside, and to my dying day I shall swear that my antagonist did likewise.  What I saw was Mistress Margery Stair riding down upon us at a hand-gallop, and I lowered my point, as any gentleman would.

In the very act—­’twas while Jennifer was clutching at her bridle rein to stay her from riding fair between us—­I felt the hot-wire prick of the steel in my shoulder and knew that my enemy had run me through as I stood.

Of what befell afterward I have but dim memories.  There were more hoof-tramplings, and then I felt the dewy turf under my hands and soft fingers tremblingly busy at my neckerchief.  Then I saw swimmingly, as through a veil of mist, a woman’s face just above my own, and it was full of horror; and I heard my enemy say:  “’Twas most unfortunate and I do heartily regret it, Mr. Jennifer.  I saw not why he had lowered his point.  Can I say more?”

How Richard Jennifer made answer to this lie I know not; nor do I know aught else, save by hear-say, of any further happening in that grassy glade beneath my father’s oaks.  For the big German blade was a shrewd blood-letter, and I fell asleep what time my lady was trying to stanch with her kerchief the ebbing tide of life.

IV