before his eyes and drove him back again.

"To me, Vilmorin, you cowardly cur!" he shouted. "To me, you dogs!"

He let fly at them a volley of blood-curdling oaths, then, without
waiting to see if they obeyed him, he came at me again, and our swords
met.

"Courage, Mademoiselle," I whispered, as a sigh that was almost a groan
escaped her. "Have no fear."

But that fight was not destined to be fought, for, as again we engaged,
there came the fall of running feet behind me. It flashed across my
mind that Michelot had been worsted, and that my back was about to be
assailed. But in St. Auban's face I saw, as in a mirror, that he who
came was Michelot.

"Mort de Christ!" snarled the Marquis, springing back beyond my reach.
"What can a man do with naught but fools and poltroons to serve
him? Faugh! We will continue our sword-play at St. Sulpice des Reaux
to-night. Au revoir, M. de Luynes!"

Turning, he sheathed his sword, and, running down to the river, bounded
into the boat, where I heard him reviling Vilmorin with every foul name
he could call to mind.

My blood was aflame, and I was not minded to wait for our meeting
at Reaux. Consigning Mademoiselle to the care of Michelot, who stood
panting and bleeding from a wound in his shoulder, I turned back to my
dead horse, and plucking the remaining pistol from the holster I ran
down to the very edge of the water. The boat was not ten yards from
shore, and my action had been unheeded by St. Auban, who was standing in
the stern.

Kneeling I took careful aim at him, and as God lives, I would have saved
much trouble that was to follow had I been allowed to fire. But at that
moment a hand was laid upon my arm, and Yvonne's sweet voice murmured in
my ear:

"You have fought a brave and gallant fight, M. de Luynes, and you have
done a deed of which the knights of old might have been proud. Do not
mar it by an act of murder."

"Murder, Mademoiselle!" I gasped, letting my hand fall. "Surely there is
no murder in this!"

"A suspicion of it, I think, and so brave a man should have clean
hands."

CHAPTER XIII. THE HAND OF YVONNE

We did not long remain upon the field of battle. Indeed, if we lingered
at all it was but so that Mademoiselle might bandage Michelot's wound.
And whilst she did so, my stout henchman related to us how it had fared
with him, and how, having taken the two ruffians separately, he had been
wounded by the first, whom he repaid by splitting his