caught at a terrible disadvantage. A few feet behind him lay a low bank and ditch; if he gave way it was a certainty that he would catch his heel on the bank and go sprawling backwards.
Their blades met, held each other, parted and met again. Up—down. Up—down; at furious speed in clash after clash. De Caylus lunged again. Roger dared not retreat even by a pace. He let his knees go and ducked the thrust. The blade pierced his coat above the shoulder and seared like a hot iron across his skin.
He knew that the Count had drawn first blood, but that the wound was too slight to be of any consequence. For a moment the point of the sword remained caught in the cloth of his coat. Had he been better placed he might have seized the opportunity to stab upward at the Count; but he could not afford to risk it. Instead, before de Caylus had fully recovered, he leapt sideways and pivoted on his left heel. The success of the movement made him gasp with thankfulness. It had brought them round, so that when their swords met again his back was no longer to the ditch; he was facing towards the horses and his adversary towards the back of the coach.
De Caylus was still fighting all out, and Roger knew now what he was up against. The strength exerted against his own blade was so terrific that, every instant, he expected to have it forced down or struck from his hand. He now had enough space between the coach and the ditch to retreat, and he only saved himself from the fierce onslaught by giving back slowly, step by step, as each furious thrust was launched to kill him.
Suddenly he heard de la Tour d'Auvergne's voice, raised in a shout. 'Beware! Behind you!
The Vicomte, still mounted and at the head of the coach-team, was watching the fight with terrible apprehension. From his point of vantage he had suddenly seen something that the two combatants, their eyes fixed upon one another, seeking to divine in them each coming move, had not.
Count Lucien had picked up the other sword from the floor of the coach, slipped out of its far door and come round its back behind Roger.
Aghast with amazement and dread de la Tour d'Auvergne had grasped the fact that the unscrupulous young man, evidently regarding the affray as no ordinary duel but an armed assault, was just about to stab Roger through the back.
The shout put both antagonists off their stroke, and both, involuntarily sprang away from one another to throw a swift glance over their shoulders. De Caylus, seeing nothing, swung back and came charging in again. Roger, finding himself half facing Count Lucien, realised his mortal peril and whipped right round to ward off his new antagonist's first lunge.
He had barely done so when he heard the swift slither of de Caylus's feet behind him. He knew then that he was done. De Caylus alone was a match for any man in France, and the blade, even of a military cadet rising eighteen, added to his was more than any champion could have tackled.
In a wild attempt to save himself Roger abandoned all rules of fence. Pivoting on his right foot he scythed with his sword sideways. Hissing through the air it whipped past Count Lucien's eyes like a lash and, ending in a full half-circle, caused de Caylus to jerk back his head just as he delivered his thrust. Swivelling again, with one swift stroke Roger smashed down Count Lucien's sword, then did a thing he had never dreamed that he would have to do as a result of issuing a challenge. Springing past Count Lucien, he took to his heels and ran.
Instantly, with wild shouts of triumph, the two of them were after, him.
'Let me have him,' yelled the young Count. 'This scullion should wield a spit and not a sword. I'll teach him to play the highwayman and waylay a coach.'
'Leave him to me, boy!' bellowed de Caylus. 'He is my affair!'
As Roger fled down the road he was conscious that his face was scarlet. His whole body was aflame with shame, and with it was mingled fear. The back of his scalp prickled. At every step he took he expected to feel a sword pierce his back and sear through his lungs. The thought of the disgrace of being killed in such a way, and, above all, with de la Tour d'Auvergne looking on, was utterly unbearable. Yet he knew that if he faltered for a second, even before he could swing about and throw himself again on guard, he would, within a minute, be choking out his life's blood.
Red-hot tears sprang to his eyes as it flashed into his mind how Count Lucien would gloatingly relate the scene to Athenais, and describe to her how they had killed her pasteboard champion like a yellow-livered cur. But, racked as he was with scalding humiliation, he could not bring himself to halt, and offer himself as a sacrifice to honour spitted on the cold steel that was flashing in his rear.
Then it came to him that he was out-distancing his pursuers. Racing on, he forced himself to listen to their steps and attempt to assess how far they had dropped behind him. Another shout from de Caylus, taunting him as a vaunted English aristocrat and calling on him to turn and fight, told him that the Count must be a good twenty paces in his rear.
He risked one swift glance over his shoulder. Count Lucien was running silently and well, no more than six paces from his heels, and had the lead over the heavier de Caylus by some twenty yards.
Suddenly Roger stopped dead and swung about. He did not attempt to throw himself on guard but thrust out his sword and tensed his arm. Count Lucien had just time to make a downward stroke deflecting the point of Roger's blade from his chest to his thigh, then his own impetus carried him right on to it. The steel ripped through the upper part of his leg. With a wild cry, he twisted, dropped his sword and fell.
Roger's blade was caught fast in the muscle, and de Caylus had already covered half the distance between them. Swiftly lifting his left foot, Roger jammed it down hard on Count Lucien's writhing body, gave a sharp tug, and freed his sword. He had one moment's breathing space and he used it to get well clear of the still squirming Count. Throwing himself on guard in the middle of the road, he panted at de Caylus:
'Now we're man to man again, we'll see if an Englishman's not as good as a French nigger! Kill me if you can!'
Again their blades clashed, clung together, slithered and parted; only to rasp and send the sparks flying again a second later. Up—down. Up—down. Lunge—stamp. Parry—twist. Up—down. Up—down. Feint—stamp—thrust. Clash—clash—clash.
Roger's breath was coming quickly now. In running for his life he had used up his first wind. But de Caylus was no better off, as the pursuit had taken a lot of his breath out of him. While giving chase to Roger he had thrown aside the white powdered wig in which he had come from Versailles, and the lingering afterglow of the sunset showed his coarse, crisp black hair, matted in tight curls to his skull. His thick-lipped mouth hung slightly open and two rows of fine white teeth gleamed from it in a ferocious smile. The yellowish whites of his eyes were slightly bloodshot and they glittered like those of a wild boar avid for the kill.
He was still superbly confident and he took risks that Roger would not have dared to take; yet Roger could not get through his guard. Their eyes never left one another's for a second; but both of them knew that de la Tour d'Auvergne had come up with some of de Caylus's people and was ordering them to carry Count Lucien back to the coach.
So far Roger had required every iota of his skill to defend himself from the violence of the Count's attack; but now, de Caylus, realising at last that he was up against an antagonist worthy of him, began to fight more warily, which enabled Roger to attempt some of his favourite thrusts.
Four times they circled round one another, then he delivered a lunge that he had learned from Monsieur St. Paul, the ex-musketeer fencing-master of Rennes. It very nearly did the trick, but de Caylus jerked himself as upright as a matador on tiptoe before a charging bull, and Roger's blade, missing him by a quarter inch, ripped through the satin lapels of his coat.
Again, for a space they circled warily; then again Roger came in, this time with a thrust that had defeated him in one of his practice bouts only a few days before. But the Count must have known it. Quick as lightning he parried, made a swift encircling movement that almost forced Roger's sword from his hand, and stabbed straight at his eyes.
Roger jerked aside his head and the gleaming blade slithered past his ear; but his evasive action had been so violent that it threw him off his balance. For a second he was poised on the ball of one foot, then he tripped and fell.
With a cry of triumph de Caylus.was upon him, his sword drawn back to skewer him to the ground. Roger flung himself sideways, rolled over twice and was brought up by the roadside bank edging the ditch. As de Caylus came at him again he squirmed over into the ditch, twisted, and came up with one knee on the bank. Throwing up his sword his luck, and not his judgment, enabled him to parry the thrust.
For a moment they fought with renewed ferocity, the Count striving with might and main to finish his
