A long breath came from the crowd.  This strange hunter spoke in a confident tone, and so he must know more than a little of the sword.  De Galisonniere had just come into the garden, and was about to speak, but when he saw that Willet was face to face with Boucher he remained silent.

“Robert,” said the hunter, “do you give me full title to this quarrel of yours?”

“Yes, it is yours,” replied the youth, knowing that the hunter would not be denied, and having supreme confidence in him.

“And now, Monsieur Boucher,” continued Willet, “the quicker the better.  Mr. Lennox will be my second and I recommend that you choose for yours one of three gentlemen, Colonel de Courcelles, Count de Mezy or the Captain de Jumonville, all of whom conspired to lead a boy into this garden and to his death.”

The faces of the three became livid.

“And,” said the hunter, “if any one of the three gentlemen whom I have mentioned should feel the need of satisfaction after I have attended to Monsieur Pierre Boucher, I shall be very glad to satisfy him.”

De Mezy recovering himself, and assuming a defiant manner, took the part of Boucher’s second.  Willet removed his coat and waistcoat and handed them to Robert, beside whom Tayoga was now standing.  Then he drew his sword and balanced it a moment in his hand, before he clasped it lightly but firmly by the hilt.

Another long breath came from the crowd which had increased.  Every man there was aware that something uncommon was afoot.  Who and what Boucher was most of them knew, but the hunter was an unknown quantity, all the more interesting because of the mystery that enshrouded him.  And the interest was deepened when they saw his swift, easy motion, his wonderful lightness for so large a man, and the manner in which the hilt of his sword fitted into his hand, as if they had long been brothers.

“I call you all to witness once again,” said Boucher, “that this quarrel was forced upon me, and that I had no wish to slay a wandering hunter of the Bostonnais.”

Willet made no reply for the present.  He took his position and Boucher took his.  The seconds gave the word, their swords clashed together, and they stepped back, each looking for an opening in the other’s guard.  Then it dawned upon the bravo that a swordsman stood before him.  But he had not the slightest fear.  He knew his own skill and strength.

“It’s strange that a hunter should know anything about the sword,” he said, “but it seems that you do and the fact pleases me much.  I would not have it said that I cut down an ignorant man.”

“And yet it might be said,” replied the hunter.  “Do you remember the boy, Gaston Lafitte, whom you fought behind the Luxembourg near twenty years ago?”

The face of Boucher suddenly went deathly white, and, for a moment, he trembled.

“Who are you, you mumming hunter?” he cried.  “I know no Gaston Lafitte.”