inst an ordinary swordsman, my
son, or even a moderately good one, but as for me, I could run you
through twice over. Indeed I would, if--"

"The paper, Mademoiselle," I called again. "Have you got it?"

"Exactly," said my father. "The paper. If the paper were in my pocket,
you, my son, would now be in the surgeon's hands. The paper, however, is
upstairs in my volume of Rabelais. And now--"

His wrist suddenly stiffened. He made a feint at my throat, and in the
same motion lowered his guard. As I came on parade, my sword was wrenched
from my grasp. At the same time I stepped past his point, and seized him
around the waist.

"You heard, Mademoiselle," I cried. "The door!" and we fell together.

My father uttered something which seemed very near a curse, and clutched
at my throat. I loosened my grasp to fend away his hand, and he broke
away from my other arm, and sprang to his feet. Just as he did so there
was a blow, a splintering of wood. The door was carried off its hinges,
and Brutus leapt beside him. The floor had not been clean. My father
brushed regretfully at the smudges on his cambric shirt.

"My coat, if you please, Mademoiselle," he said. "I see you have it in
your hands. Gad, my son! It was a nearer thing than I expected. On my
word, I did not know that Brutus was back."

"He is like you, captain," said Mademoiselle, handing the coat to him.
"You are both stubborn."

For some reason I could not fathom, her good nature had returned. It was
relief, perhaps, that made her smile at us.

"It is a family trait," returned my father.

As though kicking down the door had been a simple household duty, Brutus
turned from it with quiet passivity, and adjusted the folds of the blue
broadcloth with an equal thoroughness, while my father straightened the
lace at his wrists.

"Huh," said Brutus suddenly. Then I noticed that his stockings were caked
with river mud, and that he had evidently been running. My father,
forgetful of his coat for the moment, whirled about and faced him.

"To think I had forgotten," he cried. "What news, you black rascal?"

"Huh," said Brutus again, and handed him a spotted slip of paper. My
father's lips parted. He seized it with unusual alacrity, read it, and
tossed it in the fire. Then he sighed, like a man from whose mind a heavy
weight of care has been lifted. The tenseness seemed to leave his slim
figure, and for an instant he looked as though the day had tired him, and
as though