aw
this, and by many a trick endeavored to induce an attack,--now dropping
his point carelessly, to address a monosyllable to a friend near; now
throwing open his guard, as if from negligence.

At length, as if tired with waiting, he called out, "_Que cela finisse!_"
and rushed in on me.

[Illustration: Tom masters the "Maitre d'Armes"]

The rapidity of the assault, for a second or so, completely overcame me;
and though I defended myself mechanically, I could neither follow his
weapon with my eye nor anticipate his intended thrust. Twice his point
touched my sword-arm above the wrist, and by a slight wound there, saved
my lungs from being pierced. At last, after a desperate rally, in which
he broke in on my guard, he made a fearful lunge at my chest. I bent
forward, and received his blade in the muscles of my back, when, with a
wheel round, I smashed the sword in me, and buried my own up to the hilt
in his body. He fell bathed in blood; and I, staggering backwards, was
caught in Pioche's arms at the moment when all consciousness was fast
leaving me.

A few minutes after I came to myself, and found that I was lying on
a heap of straw in the yard, while two regimental surgeons were most
industriously engaged in trying to stop the hemorrhage of my wounds.

With little interest in my own fate, I could not help feeling anxious
about my antagonist. They shook their heads mournfully in reply to my
question, and desired me to be as calm as possible, for my life hung on
a very thread. The dressing completed, I was carried into the house, and
laid on a bed in a small, neat-looking chamber, which I heard, as they
carried me along, mademoiselle had kindly placed at my disposal. She
herself assisted to place the pillow beneath my head, and then with
noiseless gesture closed the curtains of the window, and took her seat
at the bedside.

The moment the others had left the room, I turned to ask for' the maitre
d'armes. But she could only say that his companions of the Fourth had
carried him away to the ambulance, refusing all offers of aid except
from the surgeons of their own corps.

"They say," added she, with a naive simplicity, "that Francois is not
made like other folk, and that the only doctors who understand him are
in the Fourth Regiment. However that may be, it will puzzle them sadly
this time; you have given him his _coup de conge_."

"I hope not, sincerely," said I, with a shudder.

"And why not?" cried mademoisel