im well enough and you can't forget
him if you would. Your face has shown it. It was well that you had
powerful friends then, or you would soon be completing your twentieth
year in the galleys."

The blood rushed back into Boucher's face until it was a blazing red,
and he attacked savagely. Few men could have stood before that powerful
and cunning offense, but Willet met him at every point. Always the
flashing steel was turned aside, and the hunter, cool, patient and
wary, looked like one who, in absolute faith, bided his time.

A gasp came from the spectators. The omens had foretold something
unusual, but here was more than they had expected or had hoped. The
greatest swordsman whom France could send forth had been checked and
held by an unknown hunter, by a Bostonnais, among whom one would not
look for swordsmanship. They stopped for breath and Boucher from under
his dark brows stared at the hunter.

"Mummer," he said. "You claim to know something of me. What other lie
about me can you tell?"

"It's not necessary to tell lies, Pierre Boucher. There was Raoul de
Bassempierre whom you compelled to fight you before he was fairly
recovered of a sickness. His blood is still on your hands. Time has not
dried it away. Look! Look! See the red bubbles standing on your wrists!"

Boucher, again as white as death, looked down hastily, and then uttered
a fierce oath. The hunter laughed.

"It's true, Boucher," he said, "and everyone here knows it's true. Why
speak of lies? I don't carry them in my stock, and I've proved that I
don't need them. Come, you wish my death, attack again, but remember
that I'm neither the untrained boy, Gaston Lafitte, nor Raoul de
Bassempierre, wasted from illness."

Boucher rushed at him, and Robert thought he could hear the angry breath
whistling through his teeth. Then he grew cooler, steadied himself and
pushed the offense. His second attack was even more dangerous than the
first, and he showed all the power and cunning of the great swordsman
that he was. Willet slowly gave ground and the spectators began to
applaud. After all, Boucher was a Frenchman and one of themselves,
although it was not the best of the French who were gathered there in
the garden that night--except de Galisonniere and one or two others.

Robert watched the hunter and saw that his breathing was still regular
and easy, and that his eye was as calm and confident as ever. Then his
own faith, shaken for a moment, returned.