"Vicomte," said D'Hérouville, "I will not fight you to-night."

"I am certain. Here is a phrase which leaves no misunderstanding." The

vicomte slapped D'Hérouville in the face.

"Damnation!" D'Hérouville fell back.

Victor turned to De Leviston. "I will waive the question of

gentleman," and he struck De Leviston even as the vicomte had struck

D'Hérouville.

"Curse you, I will accompany you!" roared De Leviston.

"Very good," returned the poet. "Vicomte, there is a fine place back

of the Ursulines. Let us go there."

When Victor entered, his room that night, an hour later, it was dark.

He groped for the candle and stoked the flint. As soon as his eyes

grew accustomed to the glare of the light, he looked about, and his

shadow wavered on the plastered walls. The Chevalier lay on his cot,

his face buried in his arms. Victor touched him and he stirred.

"It is all right, Paul." Victor threw his sword and baldric into a

corner and sat down beside his stricken friend, throwing an arm around

his shoulders. "I have just this moment run De Leviston through the

shoulder. That vicomte is a cool hand. He put his blade nicely

between D'Hérouville's ribs. They will both remain in hospital for two

or three weeks. It was a good fight."




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