Lucas broke again into derisive laughter.

“M. de Grammont is as dull a dolt as ever I met, yet clever enough to gull you.  He thought you must suspect.  I dreaded it—­needlessly.  You wise St. Quentins!  You cannot see what goes on under your very nose.”

M. le Comte sprang forward, scarlet.  Lucas flourished the sword.

“The boy there caught at a glance what you had not found out in a fortnight.  He gets to the duke and blocks my game—­for to-day.  But if they sent him ahead to hold us till their men came up, they were fools, too.  I’ll have the duke yet, and I’ll have you now.”

He rushed at the unarmed Yeux-gris.  The latter darted at Grammont’s fallen sword, seized it, was on guard, all in the second before Lucas reached him.  He might have been in a fortnight’s trance, but he was awake at last.

I trembled for him, then took heart again, as he parried thrust after thrust and pressed Lucas hard.  I had never seen a man fight with his left arm before; I had not realized it could be done, being myself helpless with that hand.  But as I watched this combat I speedily perceived how dangerous is a left-handed adversary.  In later years I was to understand better, when M. le Comte had become known the length of the land by the title “Le Gaucher.”  But at this time he was in the habit, like the rest of the world, of fencing with his right hand; his dexterity with the other he rated only as a pretty accomplishment to surprise the crowd.  He used his left hand scarcely as well as Lucas the right; yet, the thrust sinister being in itself a strength, they were not badly matched.  I stood watching with all my eyes, when of a sudden I felt a grasp on my ankle and the next instant was thrown heavily to the pavement.

Grammont had come to life and taken prompt part in the fray.

I fell close to him, and instantly he let go my leg and wound his arms around me.  I tried to rise and could not, and we rolled about together in the wine and blood and broken glass.  All the while I heard the sword-blades clashing.  Yeux-gris, God be thanked! seemed to be holding his own.

Fighting Gervais was like fighting two men.  Slowly but steadily he pressed me down and held me.  I struggled for dear life—­and could not push him back an inch.

I still held my knife but my arms were pinned down.  Gervais raised himself a little to get a better clutch, and his fingers closed on my throat.  One grip, and life seemed flowing from me.  My arm was free now if I could but lift it.  If I could not, nevermore should I lift it on this sunny earth.  I did lift it, and drove the dagger deep into him.

I could not take aim; I could not tell where the knife struck.  A gasp showed he was hit; then he clinched my throat once more.  Sight went from me, and hearing.  “It is no use,” I thought, and then thought went, too.

But once again the saints were kind to me.  The blackness passed, and I wondered what had happened that I was spared.  Then I saw Grammont clutching with both hands at the dagger-hilt.  After all, the blow had gone home.  I had struck him in the left side under the arm.  Three good inches of steel were in him.