The Grey Cloak

The marquis spat upon the floor. "On guard, Monsieur!"

"If you insist;" and D'Hérouville stepped forward carelessly.

The blades came together. Then followed a sight for the paladins. For

it took D'Hérouville but a moment to learn why the marquis had been

called the prince of a hundred duels. Only twice in his life had he

met such a master.

"I am old, eh, Monsieur?" said the marquis, making an assault which

D'Hérouville, had his blade swerved the breadth of a hair, would never

have neutralized.

Back, step by step, he was forced, till he felt his shoulders touch the

wall. He was beginning to suffer cruelly. A warmth on his side told

him that his old wound had opened and was bleeding. Good God! and if

this old man at whom he had laughed should kill him! With a desperate

return he succeeded in regaining the open. He tried the offensive, it

was too late. The marquis, describing a circle, toppled over a candle,

which rolled across the floor and was snuffed in its own melting wax.

The marquis's eyes burned like carbuncles; his blade was like living

light. He spoke.

"I am old; beware of old dogs that have teeth."

Round and round they circled, back and forth. D'Hérouville was

fighting for his life. His own wonderful mastery, and this alone, kept

the life in his body. Sometimes it seemed that he must be in a dream,

the victim of some terrible nightmare. For the marquis's face did not

look human, animated as it was with the lust to kill.

"God!" burst from the count's cracked lips. His sword was rolling at

his feet. It was the end. He shut his eyes.

The marquis drew back his arm to send the blade home, and there came a

change. At the very moment when victory must have been his, he

staggered, a black mist filming his eyes. The magic blade slipped from

his grasp and clanged to the floor. He tried to save himself, but he

could not. He fell by the side of his sword and lay there silent. His

strength, had been superhuman, the last flare of a burnt-out fire.

"Good God, and I never touched him!" gasped, D'Hérouville. He was

covered with a cold sweat. "A moment more and I had been a dead man!"

He brushed his eyes, and his hand shook with a transient palsy.

There was a tableau: the aged noble stretched out beside his rapier,

D'Hérouville leaning against the wall and wild-eyed . . . and a

black-robed figure standing in the doorway.

"Have you killed him?" asked the black-robed figure, stepping into the

room.

D'Hérouville gazed at him, incapable of speaking.

"Have you killed him, I say?" repeated Brother Jacques.