he sand itself or exhaled upon
a breath from the sea: at first she could not credit her vision.

It was not with her eyes--those tear-blurred eyes--she knew him; it was
by the inner sense, the nameless one that lovers know; she felt the
tale in a thud of the heart and ran out with "Sim!" shrieked on her dumb
lips. Her gown trailed in the pools and flicked up the ooze of weed and
sand; a shoulder bared itself; some of her hair took shame and covered
it with a veil of dull gold.

CHAPTER XXVIII -- THE DUEL ON THE SANDS--Continued.

And now it was clear day. The lime-washed walls of the town gleamed in
sunshine, and the shadows of the men at war upon the sand stretched far
back from their feet toward the white land. Birds twittered, and shook
the snow from the shrubbery of the Duke's garden; the river cried below
the arches, but not loud enough to drown the sound of stumbling steps,
and Montaiglon threw a glance in the direction whence they came, even at
the risk of being spitted on his opponent's weapon.

He parried a thrust in quarte and cried, "Stop! stop! _Remettez-vous,
monsieur!_ Here comes a woman."

The Chamberlain looked at the dishevelled figure running awkwardly over
the rough stones and slimy weeds, muttered an oath, and put his point up
again.

"Come on," said he; "we'll have the whole town about our lugs in ten
minutes."

"But the lady?" said Count Victor, guarding under protest.

"It's only Kate," said the Chamberlain, and aimed a furious thrust
in tierce. Montaiglon parried by a beat of the edge of his forte, and
forced the blade upwards. He could have disarmed by the simplest trick
of Girard, but missed the opportunity from an insane desire to save his
opponent's feelings in the presence of a spectator. Yet the leniency
cost them dear.

"Sim! Sim!" cried out the woman in a voice full of horror and entreaty,
panting towards the combatants. Her call confused her lover: in a
mingling of anger and impatience he lunged wildly, and Count Victor's
weapon took him in the chest.

"Zut!" cried the Frenchman, withdrawing the sword and flicking the blood
from the point with a ludicrous movement.

The Chamberlain writhed at his feet, muttered something fierce in
Gaelic, and a great repugnance took possession of the other. He looked
at his work; he quite forgot the hurrying woman until she ran past him
and threw herself beside the wounded man.

"Oh, Sim! Sim!" she wailed, in an utterance the most di