The Launching of Roger Brook

well-armed, if somewhat short, man. But now he felt that he simply must chance an encounter to find out where he was and, some five minutes later, coming on a party of sailors belatedly returning to their ship, he hailed them in as gruff a voice as he could manage. To his relief, though hilariously tipsy, they proved friendly enough and gave him verbose directions how to find the Bassin Vauban.

The moon was now rising above the masts of the shipping so his long tramp back was made somewhat easier from his being able to avoid the frequent potholes among the cobbles and the heaps of stink­ing garbage with which the wharfs were Uttered.

At length, fairly sober again now, but tired and still seething with anger at his night's misadventures, he recognised the sign of Les Trois Fleur-de-Lys. Then, with the cessation of his own footsteps as he paused before the door he heard others, and realised that someone must have been walking along behind him. Turning, he looked in the direction from which he had come and saw a lanky figure approaching. With a fresh wave of anger he recognised De Roubec, the author of all his troubles.

After a moment the Chevalier saw him too, and his greeting showed that he was in an equally ill humour. 'So 'tis you, my little cock without spurs,' he remarked acidly. 'Methought that failing a mother to tuck you up in bed you would have gone to spend the night in a convent.'

'What the devil d'you mean?' Roger exclaimed, flushing hotly, although he knew perfectly well at what De Roubec was driving.

'You know what I mean,' declared the Chevalier, mouthing his words thickly. 'And a fine return you made for my interest in you. Not only do you insult a poor girl and upset a well-conducted house to which I introduced you; but by going there as my friend and be­having as you did you put a shame upon me publicly.'

'If you consider that thieving rabble a public worthy of con­sideration, God pity you,' flared Roger.

'So now you have the impudence to call in question the company I keep?'

'Yes, when 'tis composed of whores, bawds and lechers. And what blame to me if, having no stomach for such scum, I choose to leave it?' Roger was now speaking in mangled French and English but anger sent enough scarce-remembered French words to his tongue for his meaning to be clear.

'Well enough, my little anchorite,' came the swift retort. 'But no gentleman occupies a wench's time, then leaves his friend to pay for the dish he leaves untasted.'

'I did no such thing. I gave the girl a guinea before I left her room, and that old bitch of a Madame made me disburse a further louis before they would let me out of the house.'

'I find it difficult to believe that, since I am an old habitue of the place and they made me pay up on your behalf.'

'D'you call me a liar?'

'What of it, if I did? You are but a tom-tit dressed in the fine feathers of a peacock, and have not the guts to tumble a woman, let alone fight a man.'

'I'll not suffer being called a liar, though,' Roger stormed, 'I tell you I paid that trollop.'

'And I tell you I did.'

'Why should you have done so? 'Twas not your affair.'

' 'Tis you who are calling me a liar now,' cried the Chevalier furiously. 'If you carried that long sword of yours as anything but an ornament, Corbleau, I'd compel you to use it I'

' 'Tis not an ornament,' yelled Roger, half-mad with rage.

'In that case apologise or draw it, you ill-mannered brat!'

As De Roubec placed his hand upon the hilt of his own sword Roger's impulse to continue the violent altercation suffered a sharp check. He felt certain that the Chevalier, like himself on leaving the brothel was a little drunk, and that his own brain was still somewhat heated by the fumes of the bad wine.. It was fair enough to maintain one's own view-point in a heated argument, particularly when one felt oneself to be in the right, but very different to risk a sword-thrust through the body. De Roubec was a head taller than himself and, for all he knew, an expert swordsman; so, although he was loath to retreat absolutely he was scared enough to attempt a postponement of the issue.

'Hold!' he exclaimed. 'Take thought, I beg. We cannot fight like this. If one of us were killed the other would be taken for murder. If fight we must at least proceed like gentlemen and arrange a proper duel with seconds as witnesses, in the morning.'

'Who spoke of a duel,' sneered De Roubec. 'I'll not make myself the laughing stock of Le Havre by challenging a puppy such as you. As for killing, dismiss the thought. I mean but to cut your ears off and send them to Mou-Mou as a salve to her wounded pride. Come, draw, or I'll slice them from your head as you stand there.'

Roger was aghast and realised that the Chevalier must be much drunker than he had at first thought him. Street brawls in which drunk­en rakes quarrelled and drew their swords upon one another without seconds, while staggering home in the small hours of the morning, were still quite common in all large cities; but De Roubec's cause for offence seemed absurdly trivial and his proposal about sending Mou-Mou her recent visitor's ears positively fantastic.

'Stop!' cried Roger, 'you can't be serious. You must be drunk to talk like this of making yourself the champion of a harlot!'

'Drunk, am I?' De Roubec roared. 'We'll soon see if I'm drunk or not. And if for naught else I'll slit your ears to teach you manners.' Upon which he lurched forward and wrenched his blade from its scabbard.

Roger was frightened now. An exciting bout with foils in the fencing school was one thing; to fight in deadly earnest with naked steel quite another. But there was no escape. Springing back a pace he drew his sword and threw himself on guard.

The blades came together with a clash and circling round each other shimmered in the moonlight. For a moment, with added appre­hension, Roger felt that the unaccustomed length of his weapon would tell against him, but he suddenly realised that not only was the fine Toledo blade much more resilient and easier to wield than he supposed, but its length cancelled out the natural advantage that De Roubec would otherwise have had from his longer reach.

In a formal duel both of them would have spent a few cautious moments in getting the feel of the other's steel before going in to the attack; but the Chevalier was in no mood to waste time trifling with his young antagonist. Within a minute he had delivered three swift lunges and advancing with each strove to force down Roger's guard by the sheer weight of his stronger arm.

Roger knew that if he allowed these tactics to continue he would never be able to stay the course. If he remained on the defensive his more powerful opponent would soon tire him out and have him at his mercy.

He was dead sober now and fighting skilfully. Almost to his amaze­ment he found that he could hold his own, at least for a limited period, but he knew that he must attempt to end the fight before he felt the first signs of exhaustion.

How to do so was now his problem. They had twice circled round one another, their blades close-knit and flashing like living fire. Roger side-stepped twice in order to get the moon behind him and in the Chevalier's eyes. He was almost as afraid of killing his antagonist, for fear of what might befall him later if he did, as of being killed him­self; so he essayed a pass that the old Master-of-Arms at Sherborne had taught him.

With a sudden spring forward he ran his sword up De Roubec's until the hilts met with a clash; he then gave a violent twist. The Chevalier let out a gasp of pain and his sword flew from his hand as the result of a half-sprained wrist.

It somersaulted through the air to fall with a clatter on the cobbles twenty feet away. As Roger had been taught that a disarmed man might run after his weapon, pick it up and renew the fight, he dashed over to the fallen sword himself and put his foot upon it. Then, seeing that the Chevalier had made no move, he picked it up and walked slowly back.

De Roubec seemed momentarily stunned by his defeat and when he spoke his voice no longer carried any hint of the liquor he had consumed.

'Monsieur Brook,' he said soberly, 'my service to you. Believe me I had no real intent to do you harm; but I was a little in wine, and a stupid impulse urged me to give a young man, whom I felt had been guilty of some rudeness towards me, a lesson. As it is I have been taught one myself.'

The apology was so handsome that Roger could not but accept it, and it was not in his nature to bear malice. So, with a bow, he handed the Chevalier back his sword, and said:

'Pray, think no more of it, Monsieur le Chevalier. I admit now that I was much at fault myself. You had, I am