De Roberval was soon completely restored to consciousness. He attempted
to rise, but when he put his right hand on the ground he fell back with
a groan. La Pommeraye saw in an instant what was wrong. The strength of
his effort to disarm De Roberval had broken one of his wrist bones.

"Sieur," he said, "you must have fallen heavily, your wrist is broken."

Such was the case, and it was a fortunate mishap for the House of
Roberval. It was this that saved his life. He had drawn his dagger,
raised it for the blow, but in the process of bringing it down he had
twisted the broken wrist so severely that the sudden pain had caused him
to lose consciousness, and the dagger, barely touching his breast, fell
beneath him in the dust.

"Monsieur, let me help you to your feet," said La Pommeraye, and, as he
spoke, placed his strong arm under the reclining nobleman, and raised
him as if he had been a babe.

De Roberval was as one in a dream. He seemed hardly to realise what had
happened until he saw Cartier and Pontbriand standing by.

"What brings you here?" he almost shouted.

"We heard a woman's scream," replied Cartier, "and fearing that some
unfortunate fair one had met with a mishap, we rushed to the rescue."

"A woman's scream! What woman?" and De Roberval looked hastily round;
but the three women had discreetly disappeared.

Before he could say aught further he was interrupted by La Pommeraye,
who gallantly came up, and, holding out an unsheathed sword, said: "Let
me, Monsieur, present you with your weapon, which you lost when you so
unfortunately slipped on your cloak."

It was a lie, and De Roberval's look showed that he was aware of it.
Possibly he was dimly conscious of having already committed himself by
his silence to his generous opponent's explanation, or his wounded
vanity may have been too strong to allow him to confess his humiliation
before the other two men; at all events he replied, with an attempt at
dignity: "I thank you, Monsieur, but you must sheathe it for me, as my
right hand is helpless."

Without a word La Pommeraye raised the sheath, and drove the blade home.

"You are generous," said De Roberval, "and I hope you may learn to be
as honourable as you are generous. I am wounded, and will soon recover;
but the kiss that burns on my niece's cheek is a wound from which she
will never recover."

At the words a sword flashed from its scabbard, and De Pontbriand stood
fierce and defiant before his f