“There you lie, Boucher.  You knew him well enough and you can’t forget him if you would.  Your face has shown it.  It was well that you had powerful friends then, or you would soon be completing your twentieth year in the galleys.”

The blood rushed back into Boucher’s face until it was a blazing red, and he attacked savagely.  Few men could have stood before that powerful and cunning offense, but Willet met him at every point.  Always the flashing steel was turned aside, and the hunter, cool, patient and wary, looked like one who, in absolute faith, bided his time.

A gasp came from the spectators.  The omens had foretold something unusual, but here was more than they had expected or had hoped.  The greatest swordsman whom France could send forth had been checked and held by an unknown hunter, by a Bostonnais, among whom one would not look for swordsmanship.  They stopped for breath and Boucher from under his dark brows stared at the hunter.

“Mummer,” he said.  “You claim to know something of me.  What other lie about me can you tell?”

“It’s not necessary to tell lies, Pierre Boucher.  There was Raoul de Bassempierre whom you compelled to fight you before he was fairly recovered of a sickness.  His blood is still on your hands.  Time has not dried it away.  Look!  Look!  See the red bubbles standing on your wrists!”

Boucher, again as white as death, looked down hastily, and then uttered a fierce oath.  The hunter laughed.

“It’s true, Boucher,” he said, “and everyone here knows it’s true.  Why speak of lies?  I don’t carry them in my stock, and I’ve proved that I don’t need them.  Come, you wish my death, attack again, but remember that I’m neither the untrained boy, Gaston Lafitte, nor Raoul de Bassempierre, wasted from illness.”

Boucher rushed at him, and Robert thought he could hear the angry breath whistling through his teeth.  Then he grew cooler, steadied himself and pushed the offense.  His second attack was even more dangerous than the first, and he showed all the power and cunning of the great swordsman that he was.  Willet slowly gave ground and the spectators began to applaud.  After all, Boucher was a Frenchman and one of themselves, although it was not the best of the French who were gathered there in the garden that night—­except de Galisonniere and one or two others.

Robert watched the hunter and saw that his breathing was still regular and easy, and that his eye was as calm and confident as ever.  Then his own faith, shaken for a moment, returned.  Boucher was still unable to break through that guard of living steel, and when they paused a second time for breath each was still untouched.

“You are a swordsman, I’ll admit that,” said Boucher.

“Yes, a better than the raw lad, Gaston Lafitte, or Raoul de Bassempierre who was ill, and a better than a third whom I recall.”

“What do you mean, mummer?”