“That’s the best,” he said, half to himself, “of dealing with a man who keeps his head.  Here they come, Cartoner—­here they come.”

And he went out to meet them.

But only one came forward.  They knew that unless they kept together, Deulin could not hold them both in check.  The very fact of their returning to the attack—­thus, with a cold-blooded courage—­showed that they were Poles.  In an instant Deulin divined their intention.  He ran forward, his blade held out in front of him.  Even at this moment he could not lay aside the little flourish—­the quick, stiff pose—­of the fencer.

His sword made a dozen turns in the air, and the point of it came down lightly, like a butterfly, on the man’s shoulder.  He lowered it further, as if seeking a particular spot, and then, deliberately, he pushed it in as if into a cheese.

“Voila, mon ami,” he said, with a sort of condescension as if he had made him a present.  As, indeed, he had.  He had given him his life.

The man leaped back with a little yelp of pain, and his knife clattered on the stones.  He stood in the moonlight, looking with horror-struck eyes at his own hand, of which the fingers, like tendrils, were slowly curling up, and he had no control over them.

“And now,” said Deulin, in Polish, “for you.”

He turned to the other, who had been moving surreptitiously round towards Cartoner, who had, indeed, come out to meet him; but the man turned and ran, followed closely by his companion.

Deulin picked up the knife, which lay gleaming on the cobble-stones, and came towards Cartoner with it.  Then he turned aside, and carefully dropped it between the bars of the street gutter, where it fell with a muddy splash.

“He will never use that hand again,” he said.  “Poor devil!  I only hope he was well paid for it.”

“Doubt it.”

Deulin was feeling in the pocket of his top-coat.

“Have you an old envelope?” he inquired.

Cartoner handed him what he asked for.  It happened to be the envelope of the letter he had received a few days earlier, denying him his recall.  And Deulin carefully wiped the blade of the sword-stick with it.  He tore it into pieces and sent it after the knife.  Then he polished the bright steel with his pocket-handkerchief, from the evil point to the hilt, where the government mark and the word “Toledo” were deeply engraved.

“Unless I keep it clean it sticks,” he explained.  “And if you want it at all, you want it in a hurry—­like a woman’s heart, eh?”

He was looking up and down the street as he spoke, and shot the blade back into its sheath.  He turned and examined the ground to make sure that nothing was left there.

“The light was good,” he said, appreciatively, “and the ground favorable for—­for the autumn manoeuvres.”

And he broke into a gay laugh.

“Come,” he said.  “Let us go back into the more frequented streets.  This back way was not a success—­only proves that it never does to turn tail.”