Truly, it was a chance which would never come again; and not to seize it was to mock Fortune to her very face.

It takes far longer to write this than to think it.  It all went through my mind in the brief space Lotzen gave me for reply.

“I am waiting, monsieur,” he said.

The Gypsy laughed softly.

“You tell him so much he already knows,” said she.

Lotzen looked at her—­in surprise, I doubt not.

“Mademoiselle is impatient,” he remarked.

She shrugged her pretty shoulders.

Then he bowed again to me.

“You see, monsieur,” he said, “you tire the Lady; I must ask you to make haste.”

If anyone think it easy to stand, stolidly, in one position for a considerable period, and have impertinent things said to him the while, let him try it.  He will be very apt to change his notion.  But, I stuck to it; and my soldier training helped me—­and the mask relieved my face.

“You are stubborn, monsieur, as well as bad mannered.  I shall have to spur you, I see,” he went on.  “I ask you, once again, monsieur, to remove your mask.  If you do not, I shall give you a bit of steel in the left leg.”

“And, if that be ineffective?” the lady asked.

“Then, I shall touch him in the other leg—­and, if he still refuses, then, in the right arm—­and, then, if necessary, in the left arm; each time a trifle deeper.”

“And, then——?” she inflected, very sweetly.

“Then?” he repeated.  “I think there will be no need for a ‘then,’ mademoiselle,” he laughed sneeringly.

She nodded toward me.

“Isn’t it about time to begin?” she asked.

“Your wish, my dear, is my law,” he said.  “You hear, monsieur; your time is up—­prepare.”

He stepped forward and thrust, very slowly, at my thigh.  Even then, I could not think that he would actually dare to touch me with his sword; and I made no motion.  I proposed to call his bluff—­if it were one.

Closer and closer, inch by inch, drew the point.  It reached the velvet—­hesitated—­passed through—­and just pierced my flesh—­then, was withdrawn.

And, with that cut, came the blood-lust, like unto the rage of the berserker of old.  Yet, somehow, I had the sense to stand quiet and let the red passion burn itself out.  I would need all my coolness to meet Lotzen’s skill.

“Now, will monsieur remove his mask?” he asked.

“You scarcely touched him,” scoffed the Gypsy.

Lotzen held up the sword.

“See the red upon the point?” he asked.

“Blood!  You actually cut him!” she exclaimed—­then pointed her finger at me, derisively.  “And you wear a sword!” she sneered.

It was pretty hard to take.  But I had a notion, foolish, possibly, to play the game a little longer.

“Come along, my friend,” she went on.  “This is poor sport.  I hate a coward.”