re, mademoiselle," he answered. "I am
only waiting to take you away."

"I refuse to go with you!" she cried. "I would rather die a thousand
times!"

His brows contracted into a single grim line. He left the window and
came towards her.

But at his action she sprang away like a mad thing, dodged him, avoided
him, then leapt suddenly upon a chair and snatched a rapier from a group
of swords arranged in a circle upon the wall. The light fell full upon
her ashen face and eyes of horror. She was beside herself.

All her instincts urged her to resistance. She had always shrunk from
this man. If she could only hold him at bay for a little--if she could
only resist long enough--surely she heard the feet of the murderers upon
the corridor already! It would not take them long to batter down the
door and take her life!

As she sprang to the ground again, Pierre spoke. The frown had gone from
his face; it wore a faint, ironical smile. His eyes, alert, unblinking,
marked her every movement as the eyes of a lynx upon its prey. He did
not appear in the least disconcerted. There was even a sort of terrible
patience in his attitude, as though he already saw the end of the
struggle.

"Would it not be wiser, mademoiselle," he said, "to reserve your steel
for an enemy?"

She met his piercing look for an instant as she compelled her white lips
to answer. "You are the worst enemy that I have."

He threw back his head with an arrogant gesture very characteristic of
him. "By your own choice, mademoiselle," he said.

"Yes," she flung back passionately. "I prefer you as an enemy."

He laughed at that--a fiendish, scoffing laugh that made her shrink in
every nerve. Then, with unmoved composure, he walked to the mantelpiece
and took up one of the foils that lay there.

"Now," he said quietly, "since you are determined to fight me, so be it!
But when you are beaten, Mademoiselle Stephanie, do not ask for mercy!"

But she drew back sharply from his advance. "Take one of those rapiers,"
she said.

He shook his head, still with that mocking smile upon his lips. "This
will serve my purpose better," he said. "Are you ready, mademoiselle? On
guard!"

And with that his weapon crossed hers. She knew his purpose the moment
she encountered it. It was written in every grim line of his
countenance. He meant the conflict to be very short.

She was no novice in the art of fencing, but she was no match for him.
Moreover, she could not meet the