Robert continued to give ground, but he never took his eye from that of de Mezy, and at last the count began to feel that something lay behind that calm, smiling gaze.  The drink and the multitude of lost hours came back to demand their price.  Something bit into his bone.  Was it physical weakness or a sudden decay of confidence?  He did not see any sign of weariness in his young opponent, and putting forth every effort of his muscles and every trick and device he knew he could not break through that shining guard of circling steel.

The strange apprehension that had suddenly found a place in de Mezy’s mind began to grow.  The slow retreat of his young antagonist was becoming slower and then it ceased entirely.  Now the leaping sword before him began to drive him back, and always the calm smiling eyes probed into his, reading what he would keep hidden deep in his heart.  They saw the terror that was growing there.  The disbelief in his antagonist’s prowess was now fast turning into a hideous contradiction, and all the while drink and the lost hours that had clamored for their price were taking it.

De Mezy began to give back.  His breath grew shorter and he gasped.  The deep mottled red returned to his cheeks, and terror took whole possession of him.  He had struck down his man before and he had laughed, but he had never faced such a swordsman as this strange youth of the woods, with his smiling eyes and his face which was a mask despite the smile.

Nemours and Le Moyne turned pale.  They saw that their leader had never once passed the bar of steel before him, and that while he panted and grew weary Lennox seemed stronger than ever.  They saw, too, that the youth was a swordsman far surpassing de Mezy and that now he was playing with his enemy.  He struck down his opponent’s guard at will, and his blade whistled about his body and face.  Nemours’ hand fell to his own hilt, but the watchful Willet saw.

“Be careful,” the hunter said in a menacing tone.  “Obey the rules or I’ll know the reason why.”

Nemours’ hand fell away from the hilt, and he and Le Moyne exchanged glances, but stood helpless.  De Mezy had been driven backward in an almost complete circle.  His wrist and arm ached to the shoulder, and always he saw before him the leaping steel and the smiling mask of a face.  He caught a glimpse of the blue sky and the shining river, and then his eyes came back to the one that held his fate.  Well for de Mezy that he had made the offer that morning to substitute Willet for Lennox, since youth, with the hot blood of battle pulsing in its veins, may think too late of mercy.  But Robert remembered.  His revenge was already complete.  All had seen the pallid face of de Mezy, and all, whether they knew anything of the sword or not, knew that he lay at the mercy of his foe.

“Strike and make an end!” gasped de Mezy.

The sword flashed before his eyes again, but the blade did not touch him.  Instead his own sword was torn from his weakening grasp, and was flung far upon the grass.  Young Lennox, turning away, sheathed his weapon.