“Well?” Count Hannibal said at last.  “Are you coming?”

“When I please,” Tignonville answered; and he feinted but drew back.

The other did the same, and again they watched one another, their eyes seeming to grow smaller and smaller.  Gradually a smile had birth on Tignonville’s lips.  He thrust!  It was parried!  He thrust again—­parried!  Tavannes, grown still more cautious, gave a yard.  Tignonville pushed on, but did not allow confidence to master caution.  He began, indeed, to taunt his adversary; to flout and jeer him.  But it was with a motive.

For suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, he repeated the peculiar thrust which had been successful before.  This time, however, Tavannes was ready.  He put aside the blade with a quick parade, and instead of making a riposte sprang within the other’s guard.  The two came face to face and breast to shoulder, and struck furiously with their daggers.  Count Hannibal was outside his opponent’s sword and had the advantage.  Tignonville’s dagger fell, but glanced off the metalwork of the other’s hilt; Tavannes’ fell swift and hard between the young man’s eyes.  The Huguenot flung up his hands and staggered back, falling his length on the floor.

In an instant Count Hannibal was on his breast, and had knocked away his dagger.  Then—­

“You own yourself vanquished?” he cried.

The young man, blinded by the blood which trickled down his face, made a sign with his hands.  Count Hannibal rose to his feet again, and stood a moment looking at his foe without speaking.  Presently he seemed to be satisfied.  He nodded, and going to the table dipped a napkin in water.  He brought it, and carefully supporting Tignonville’s head, laved his brow.

“It is as I thought,” he said, when he had stanched the blood.  “You are not hurt, man.  You are stunned.  It is no more than a bruise.”

The young man was coming to himself.  “But I thought—­” he muttered, and broke off to pass his hand over his face.  Then he got up slowly, reeling a little, “I thought it was the point,” he muttered.

“No, it was the pommel,” Tavannes answered dryly.  “It would not have served me to kill you.  I could have done that ten times.”

Tignonville groaned, and, sitting down at the table, held the napkin to his aching head.  One of the candles had been overturned in the struggle and lay on the floor, flaring in a little pool of grease.  Tavannes set his heel upon it; then, striding to the farther end of the room, he picked up Tignonville’s dagger and placed it beside his sword on the table.  He looked about to see if aught else remained to do, and, finding nothing, he returned to Tignonville’s side.

“Now, Monsieur,” he said in a voice hard and constrained, “I must ask you to perform your part of the bargain.”

A groan of anguish broke from the unhappy man.  And yet he had set his life on the cast; what more could he have done?