V

Rapiers and a vow.

I came to my senses slowly, to hear loud, angry voices.  As I opened my eyes and stirred, the room reeled from me and all was blank again.  Awhile after, I grew aware of a clashing of steel.  I lay wondering thickly what it was and why it had to be going on while my head ached so, till at length it dawned on my dull brain that swords were crossing.  I opened my eyes again, then.

They were fighting each other, Yeux-gris and Gervais.  The latter was almost trampling on me, Yeux-gris had pressed him so close to the wall.  Then he forced his way out, and they drove each other round in a circle till the room seemed to spin once more.

I crawled out of the way and watched them, bewildered, absorbed.  I had more reason to thrill over the contest than the mere excellence of it,—­which was great,—­since I was the cause of the duel, and my very life, belike, hung on its issue.

They were both admirable swordsmen, yet it was clear from the first where the palm lay.  Anything nimbler, lighter, easier than the sword-play of Yeux-gris I never hope to see in this imperfect world.  The heavier adversary was hot, angry, breathing hard.  A smile hovered over Yeux-gris’s lips; already a red disk on Gervais’s shirt showed where his cousin’s sword had been and would soon go again, and deeper.  I had forgotten my bruise in my interest and delight, when, of a sudden, one whom we all had ignored took a hand in the game.  Gervais’s lackey started forward and knocked up Yeux-gris’s arm.  His sword flew wide, and Gervais slashed his arm from wrist to elbow.

With a smothered cry, Yeux-gris caught at his wound.  Gervais, ablaze with rage, sprang past him on his creature.  The man gaped with amazement; then, for there was no time for parley, leaped for the door.  It was locked.  He turned, and with a look of deathly terror fell on his knees, crouched up against the door-post.  Gervais lunged.  His blade passed clean through the man’s shoulders and pinned him to the door.  His head fell heavily forward.

“Have you killed him?” cried Yeux-gris.

“By my faith!  I meant to,” came the answer.  Gervais was bending over the man.  With an abrupt laugh he called out:  “Killed him, pardieu!  He has come off cheap.”

He raised the fellow’s limp head, and we saw that the sword had passed just over his shoulder, piercing the linen, not the flesh.  He had swooned from sheer terror, being in truth not so much as scratched.

Gervais turned to his cousin.

“I never meant that foul trick.  It was no thought of mine.  I would have turned the blade if I could.  I will kill Pontou now, if you say the word.”

“Nay,” answered the other, faintly; “help me.”

The blood was pouring from his arm; he was half swooning.  Gervais and I ran to him and, between us, bathed the cut, bandaged it with strips torn from a shirt, and made a sling of a scarf.  The wound was long, but not deep, and when we had poured some wine down his throat he was himself again.