The Messenger of the Black Prince 5

The Messenger of the Black Prince 5

The stranger broke out into a loud laugh.

 

“Why, man,” he exclaimed, “you have more wit than I imagined.” He bowed

low again. “It is to your credit, sir.”

 

André yawned.

 

“It is indeed cold,” he said. “But your tongue has a chill all of its

own. Do you know, my friend, I should have had a fire going by this time

if you——” But he stopped short, knowing that as a host he should not be

the first to openly offend.

 

But the stranger tossed back his head. He clapped my brother soundly on

the shoulder.

 

“I shall finish it for you,” he cried. “You meant to say, ‘—if I had not

come into the house.’” He flung his arm in the air in a wild gesture of

mirth. “You too have a tongue in your head. To tell you truly I am

amazed, for at first sight of you I thought you nothing but a country

dullard!”

 

With that he stared brazenly into André’s face. Then with the lightness

of a feather, he spun around and threw himself into one of the chairs.

 

My brother went as white as chalk. For a second he seemed stupefied.

Then a redness swept over him. He walked deliberately to the rack that

held the arms. The old Lord of Gramont halted where he had been pacing

half way across the room and looked sharply back. As for me my breath

stuck in my throat.

 

André returned bearing a naked sword in his hand.

 

“There is no light outside of the house,” he said. “We must finish, what

we have begun, here.”

 

The other arose. The same taunting smile played around his mouth.

 

“I had not thought you would have the courage,” he remarked. And then,

“Will you stain the floor of the house with your own blood?”

 

My brother took his position but, for a second, the old Count of Gramont

interfered.

 

“Will you tell us your name?” he asked the stranger. “In case anything

happens, it will be well to know.”

 

“My name?” repeated our visitor laying his finger-tips on his chest, and

with the shadow of a bow. “I am called the Sieur De Marsac. To all with

whom I am acquainted, a faithful servant of his Majesty, the King.”

 

There were no words more. The swords rang in the air. De Marsac began as

though it were only a fancy play, my brother with all the seriousness of

his nature. There was a difference between the two that was soon seen.

Our visitor had the advantage in litheness and in trickery. André was

the better in strength of wrist and in driving into his enemy with force

and steadiness.

 

The fight began with a few light thrusts and parries that on each side

were only trials of the other’s skill. Then of a sudden De Marsac

unleashed a savage attack. His sword came darting in like the fangs of a

snake with the point directed towards André’s heart. A part of a second

and it would have been too late, but my brother, who, I saw, was making

sure of his defense, swung his weapon to the side and caught his enemy’s

blade, steel against steel. The swords locked at the pommels like the

horns of deer and for a second the two stood glaring into each other’s

eyes.

 

It was here that André’s sturdiness showed itself, for it was a test of

the one man’s brawn against the other’s. My brother’s jaws came together

with determination. The veins in his neck swelled. He raised himself

slowly on the balls of his feet and pressed forward with all his might.

A cold look came into De Marsac’s eyes and a frown crossed his forehead.

I saw him go back little by little on his heels. His arm was bending in

towards his body. André took a step forward and our enemy to save

himself from being thrown off his balance sprang quickly backwards.

 

De Marsac began anew. His smile of confidence faded into seriousness. He

tried again with a few feints to find an opening in my brother’s

defense. Each time he was blocked with neatness and surety. Each time he

drew back with a scowl. The color in his face gave way to a pallid

white. His breath came short. But there was a look of gathering hate on

his countenance and a shifting __EXPRESSION__ in his eyes that roused me in

alarm.

 

“Look out for a trick, André!”

 

It was foolish for me to cry out. It is no thing to do when men are in a

conflict that means life or death, for in the second when he heard my

voice, my brother shot a look towards me that told me as plainly as

words that he knew what he was about. But I had given De Marsac his

opportunity. In that brief moment when my brother’s eyes were turned,

our enemy sprang forward with the quickness of a tiger. The light of the

candles ran like a flash along his blade. His arm, the sleeve of black

velvet and fancy lace, straightened itself in the direction of my

brother’s chest.

 

But for the terror that I felt, I would have closed my eyes, for in the

next breath I expected to see André fall. But instead he showed a

nimbleness that I never dreamed was his. Like a spring he was down and

up again. By the breath of a hair De Marsac’s weapon passed over his

shoulder. Our enemy’s body was open for the fatal blow and my brother,

heated with the conflict, wrapped his knuckles about his sword to strike

his insulter to his feet.

 

His sword came forward. He had put one foot before the other to drive

home the blow with all the might that lay in him. The point caught De

Marsac in the middle of the chest as straight as ever a thrust was aimed

and, I am sure with as much power behind it as any average man can put.

 

I expected to see our enemy crumble to the floor—dead. To our extreme

amazement, as André struck, we heard a sharp click. The sword which De

Marsac held, fell, to be sure, rattling to the floor. But no blood

flowed, and his body, as though it had been violently pushed, or struck

by a man’s fist, tumbled back. He tried to keep on his feet but was too

far gone. He measured his length on the floor and in falling knocked his

head against one of the legs of the long oaken table.

 

It was the old Count of Gramont who spoke first.

 

“A coat of linked mail!” he cried running over to him. “He wears a coat

of mail under his velvet jerkin.”

 

De Marsac was stunned. The old Count caught him roughly by the shoulder

and jerked him to his feet.

 

“A trickster!” he shouted in his face. “You are a low-born coward.”

 

De Marsac never uttered a word. He blinked and ran his hand over his

eyes till they cleared. The old smile of cunning curled around his lips,

but this time it was mingled with contempt and hate.

 

“You Norman dogs!” he hissed. “Do you think I would match my life with

yours?”

 

The old man went white with anger. He held his big hand out at arm’s

length. He curled it slowly into a knot of a fist and took a deep

breath. With what force he could summon he whirled about and struck De

Marsac a hard blow in the face. We had not expected it and I think De

Marsac was taken by surprise too. His knees sagged under him and his

arms fell limp at his side. He would have fallen, had not the old Count

caught him again by the shoulder and pushed him into a chair.

 

“You are not the first of your breed that this fist has struck down,” he

cried. “In the days gone by it has wielded a battle-ax that laid dozens

of your countrymen low. If the time comes,” he added darkly, “it is

still strong enough to match itself with another foe.”

 

He took to pacing once more up and down the hall. André walked quietly

to the rack and put his sword away. When he came back he picked up De

Marsac’s weapon where it had fallen and handed it to him.

 

“You will have no further need of this,” he said in an even tone, “—at

least while you are here.”

 

Of the four of us in that room it was De Marsac who first regained his

poise. The sting of the rebukes which had been flung into his face soon

faded away. He arose without a look at any of us and took his coat over

his arm. Then he put his hat upon his head and snapped his sword back

into its scabbard. Without a word he walked towards the door and as he

went I thought I saw his former jauntiness returning.

 

“Gentlemen,” he said with his fingers on the latch and in a voice of

sneering mockery. “You have won tonight, for it is difficult for a man

to fight two against one. There will come another meeting when there

will be fairer odds. At that time I promise you a different ending to

the story.”

 

None of us answered. He closed the door behind him quietly and with no

show of anger passed out of the house.

 

I breathed a long sigh.

 

“I’m glad he’s gone,” I said.

 

My brother and the old Count exchanged glances.

 

“There’s something back of that fellow,” said André. “We must be on our

guard for I think we shall hear from him again.”

 

We sat for almost an hour. None of us stirred except André who busied

himself in making a fire. When the blaze had spread warmth about the

room he came and sat down with us again. A tiny spot of blood was oozing

through the bandages.

 

“It’s from the exertion,” he explained with a smile. “I wonder if the

fellow who attacked us on the road was a hireling of De Marsac?”

 

At that the dogs began barking and yelping as they did before. The old

Count of Gramont started to the door, but before he reached it, it flew

wide open. It was De Marsac who burst into the room. He must have fallen

into the mud for his velvet breeches were splattered with clay. A wild

look shone from his eyes and he was of the color of death.

 

“An attack has been made upon my life!” he cried.