But to return to the moonlight on the grass.  My thrust made home, there was a perceptible pause.  Not at once did Fortini fall.  Not at once did I withdraw the blade.  For a full second we stood in pause—­I, with legs spread, and arched and tense, body thrown forward, right arm horizontal and straight out; Fortini, his blade beyond me so far that hilt and hand just rested lightly against my left breast, his body rigid, his eyes open and shining.

So statuesque were we for that second that I swear those about us were not immediately aware of what had happened.  Then Fortini gasped and coughed slightly.  The rigidity of his pose slackened.  The hilt and hand against my breast wavered, then the arm drooped to his side till the rapier point rested on the lawn.  By this time Pasquini and de Goncourt had sprung to him and he was sinking into their arms.  In faith, it was harder for me to withdraw the steel than to drive it in.  His flesh clung about it as if jealous to let it depart.  Oh, believe me, it required a distinct physical effort to get clear of what I had done.

But the pang of the withdrawal must have stung him back to life and purpose, for he shook off his friends, straightened himself, and lifted his rapier into position.  I, too, took position, marvelling that it was possible I had spitted him heart-high and yet missed any vital spot.  Then, and before his friends could catch him, his legs crumpled under him and he went heavily to grass.  They laid him on his back, but he was already dead, his face ghastly still under the moon, his right hand still a-clutch of the rapier.

Yes; it is indeed a marvellous easy thing to kill a man.

We saluted his friends and were about to depart, when Felix Pasquini detained me.

“Pardon me,” I said.  “Let it be to-morrow.”

“We have but to move a step aside,” he urged, “where the grass is still dry.”

“Let me then wet it for you, Sainte-Maure,” Lanfranc asked of me, eager himself to do for an Italian.

I shook my head.

“Pasquini is mine,” I answered.  “He shall be first to-morrow.”

“Are there others?” Lanfranc demanded.

“Ask de Goncourt,” I grinned.  “I imagine he is already laying claim to the honour of being the third.”

At this, de Goncourt showed distressed acquiescence.  Lanfranc looked inquiry at him, and de Goncourt nodded.

“And after him I doubt not comes the cockerel,” I went on.

And even as I spoke the red-haired Guy de Villehardouin, alone, strode to us across the moonlit grass.

“At least I shall have him,” Lanfranc cried, his voice almost wheedling, so great was his desire.

“Ask him,” I laughed, then turned to Pasquini.  “To-morrow,” I said.  “Do you name time and place, and I shall be there.”

“The grass is most excellent,” he teased, “the place is most excellent, and I am minded that Fortini has you for company this night.”