“A wonderful site and a wonderful view,” said Robert.

“But from Montmartre in Paris one may see a far greater city,” said Boucher at his elbow.

Robert turned angrily upon him.  He felt that the man, in some manner, was pursuing him, and that he had stood enough.

“I did not speak to you, Monsieur Boucher,” he said.

“But I spoke to you, my young sprig of a Bostonnais.”

He spoke with truculence, and now de Courcelles did not interfere.  The others, hearing loud and harsh words, drew near.  Jumonville came very close and regarded Robert with great intentness, evidently curious to see what he would do.  The youth stared at Boucher in amazement, but he exercised his utmost self-control.

“I know that you spoke to me, Monsieur Boucher,” he said, “but as I do not see any relevancy in your remarks I will ask you to excuse me.  I came here merely for the air with Colonel de Courcelles.”

He turned away, expecting de Courcelles to resume the walk with him, but the figure of the Frenchman stiffened and he did not move.  All at once a wind of hostility seemed to be blowing.  Somewhere in the dusk, somebody laughed lightly.  Robert’s face blazed, but he was still master of himself.

“And so you would leave after speaking to me in a manner that is an insult,” sneered Boucher.

“You were the first to give an insult.”

“If you think so I am ready to return satisfaction.”

Boucher folded his arms across his chest, his powerful wrists crossed, and stared at Robert, his lips wrinkling in ugly fashion.  It was a look like that which Tandakora had given him, and there in the background was the huge and sinister figure of the Indian, wrapped in his blanket of flame.  He also saw de Mezy and he too was sneering in insolent triumph.  De Courcelles, from whom he had a right at that time to expect friendship, or at least support, had drawn farther away.

“I am a guest here,” said Robert, “and I seek no trouble.  I don’t wish to mar the hospitality of Monsieur Bigot by being a party to a quarrel in his garden.”

Again that light laugh came from a point somewhere in the dusk and again Robert’s face blazed, but he still held himself under firm control.

“You were ready enough to fight Count Jean de Mezy this morning,” said Boucher, “knowing that he was not in condition and that you had a skill with the sword not suspected by him.”

The truth of it all flashed upon Robert with the certainty of conviction.  The entire situation had been arranged and de Courcelles was one of its principals.  He had been brought into the garden that a fight might be forced upon him there.  Boucher was a bravo and undoubtedly a great swordsman.  He understood now the secret of those thick flexible wrists and of the man’s insulting manner.  His blood became ice in his veins for a moment or two, but it was good for him, cooling his head and quickening his mind.  His heart beat with regularity and steadiness.