“I thank you, Monsieur de Courcelles,” he said, “for your action in this matter, which I now understand.  It’s true that it departs in some respects from what I have understood to be the code and practice of a French gentleman, but doubtless, sir, it’s your right to amend those standards as you choose.”

De Courcelles flushed, bit his lip and was silent.

“Very pretty!  Very pretty!” sneered Boucher, “but French gentlemen are the best judges of their own manners and morals.  You have your sword, sir, and I have mine.  Here is a fine open space, well lighted by the moon, and no time is better than the present.  Will you draw, sir?”

“He will not,” said a voice over Robert’s shoulder, which he instantly recognized as that of the hunter.  He felt suddenly as if a great wall had been raised for his support.  He was no longer alone among plotting enemies.

“And why will he not, and what affair is it of yours?” asked Boucher, his manner threatening.

Willet took a step forward, his figure towering and full of menace.  Just behind him was Tayoga.  Robert had never seen the hunter look taller or more charged with righteous wrath.  But it was an anger that burned like a white hot flame, and it was alive with deadly menace.

“He will not draw because he was brought here to be assassinated by you, bully and bravo that you are,” replied Willet, plumbing the very depths of Boucher’s eyes with his stern gaze.  “I like the French, and I know them to be a brave and honest people.  I did not think that in a gathering of French gentlemen enough could be found to form a treacherous and murderous conspiracy like this.”

Nobody laughed in the dusk.  The silence was intense.  A cool wind blew across Robert’s face, and he felt anew that an invincible champion stood by his side.  Boucher broke the silence with a contemptuous laugh.

“Out of the way, sir,” he said.  “The affair does not concern you.  If he does not draw and defend himself I will chastise him with the flat of my sword.”

“You will not,” said the hunter, in his cool, measured tones.  “You will fight me, instead.”

“My quarrel is not with you.”

“But it soon will be.”

Near Willet was a rose bush with fresh earth heaped over its roots.  Stooping suddenly he picked up a handful and flung it with force into the bravo’s face.  Boucher swore under his breath, stepped back, and wiped away the earth.

“You’ve earned the precedence, sir,” he said, “though I reserve the right to attend to Mr. Lennox afterward.  ’Tis a pity that I should have to waste my steel on a common hunter.  I call all of you to witness that this quarrel was forced upon me.”

“Your pity does you credit,” said the hunter, “but it’s not needed.  ’Twere better, sir, if you have such a large supply of that commodity that you save a little of it for yourself.  And as for your attending to Mr. Lennox afterward, that meeting, I think, will not occur.”