The mist was lifting from the earth and nature lay wrapped in the rosy peace of daybreak as the sun’s shafts of gold pierced the foliage, illumining the historic ground of the Oaks. Like shining lances, they gleamed from the interstices in the leafy roof to the dew-bejeweled sward. From this stronghold of glistening arms, however, the surrounding country stretched tranquil and serene. Upon a neighboring bank sheep were browsing; in the distance cow-bells tinkled, and the drowsy cowherds followed the cattle, faithful as the shepherds who tended their flocks on the Judean hills.

Beneath the spreading trees were assembled a group of persons variously disposed. A little dapper man was bending over a case of instruments, as merry a soul as ever adjusted a ligature or sewed a wound. Be-ribboned and be-medaled, the Count de Propriac, acting for the land baron, and Barnes, who had accompanied the soldier, were consulting over the weapons, a magnificent pair of rapiers with costly steel guards, 269 set with initials and a coronet. Member of an ancient society of France which yet sought to perpetuate the memory of the old judicial combat and the more modern duel, the count was one of those persons who think they are in honor bound to bear a challenge, without questioning the cause, or asking the “color of a reason.”

“A superb pair of weapons, count!” observed the doctor, rising.

“Yes,” said the person addressed, holding the blade so that the sunlight ran along the steel; “the same Jacques Legres and I fought with!”

Here the count smiled in a melancholy manner, which left no doubt regarding the fate of the hapless Jacques. But after a moment he supplemented this indubitable assurance by adding specifically:

“The left artery of the left lung!”

“Bless my soul!” commented the medical man. “But what is this head in gold beneath the guard?”

“Saint Michael, the patron saint of duelists!” answered the count.

“Patron!” exclaimed the doctor. “Well, all I have to say is, it is a saintless business for Michael.”

The count laughed and turned away with a business-like air.

“Are you ready, gentlemen?”

At his words the contestants immediately took their positions. The land baron, lithe and supple, presented a picture of insolent and conscious pride, his glance 270 lighted by disdain, but smoldering with fiercer passions as he examined and tested his blade.

“Engage!” exclaimed the count.

With ill-concealed eagerness, Mauville began a vigorous, although guarded attack, as if asserting his supremacy, and at the same time testing his man. The buzzing switch of the steel became angrier; the weapons glinted and gleamed, intertwining silently and separating with a swish. The patroon’s features glowed; his movements became quicker, and, executing a rapid parry, he lunged with a thrust so stealthy his blade was beaten down only as it touched the soldier’s breast.

Mauville smiled, but Barnes groaned inwardly, feeling his courage and confidence fast oozing from him. Neither he nor the other spectators doubted the result. Strength would count but little against such agility; the land baron was an incomparable swordsman.

“Gad!” muttered the count to himself. “It promises to be short and sweet.”

As if to demonstrate the verity of this assertion, Mauville suddenly followed his momentary advantage with a dangerous lunge from below. Involuntarily Barnes looked away, but his wandering attention was immediately recalled. From the lips of the land baron burst an exclamation of mingled pain and anger. Saint-Prosper had not only parried the thrust, but his own blade, by a rapid riposte, had grazed the shoulder of his foe.

Nor was the manager’s surprise greater than that of the count. The latter, amazed this unusual strategem should have failed when directed by a wrist as trained and an eye as quick as Mauville’s, now interposed.

“Enough!” he exclaimed, separating the contestants. “Demme! it was superb. Honor has been satisfied.”

“It is nothing!” cried the land baron, fiercely. “His blade hardly touched me.” In his exasperation and disappointment over his failure, Mauville was scarcely conscious of his wound. “I tell you it is nothing,” he repeated.

“What do you say, Mr. Saint-Prosper?” asked the count.

“I am satisfied,” returned the young man, coldly.

“But I’m not!” reiterated the patroon, restraining himself with difficulty. “It was understood we should continue until both were willing to stop!”

“No,” interrupted the count, suavely; “it was understood you should continue, if both were willing!”

“And you’re not!” exclaimed the land baron, wheeling on Saint-Prosper. “Did you leave the army because––”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen! let us observe the proprieties!” expostulated the count. “Is it your intention, sir”––to Saint-Prosper––“not to grant my principal’s request?”

A fierce new anger gleamed from the soldier’s eyes, completely transforming his expression and bearing. His glance quickly swept from the count to Mauville 272 at the studied insult of the latter’s words; on his cheek burned a dark red spot.

“Let it go on!”

The count stepped nimbly from his position between the two men. Again the swords crossed. The count’s glance bent itself more closely on the figure of the soldier; noting now how superbly poised was his body; what reserves of strength were suggested by the white, muscular arm! His wrist moved like a machine, lightly brushing aside the thrusts. Had it been but accident that Mauville’s unlooked-for expedient had failed?

“The devil!” thought the count, watching the soldier. “Here is a fellow who has deceived us all.”

But the land baron’s zest only appeared to grow in proportion to the resistance he encountered; the lust for fighting increased with the music of the blades. For some moments he feinted and lunged, seeking an opening, however slight. Again he appeared bent upon forcing a quick conclusion, for suddenly with a rush he sought to break over Saint-Prosper’s guard, and succeeded in wounding the other slightly in the forehead. Now sure of his man, Mauville sprang at him savagely.

But dashing the blood from his eyes with his free hand, and without giving way, Saint-Prosper met the assault with a wrist of iron, and the land baron failed to profit by what had seemed a certain advantage. The wound had the effect of making the soldier more cautious, and eye, foot and hand were equally true. 273 Mauville was breathing heavily from his exertions, but the appearance of both men, the supple movements of the one contrasting with the perfect precision of the other, would have delighted those members of the count’s society, who regarded these matches as leading to a renaissance of chivalry.

In his fury that his chance had slipped away, after wounding, and, as he supposed, blinding his opponent, Mauville, throwing prudence to the winds, recklessly attempted to repeat his rash expedient, and this time the steel of his antagonist gleamed like quicksilver, passing beneath his arm and inflicting a slight flesh wound. Something resembling a look of apprehension crossed the land baron’s face. “I have underestimated him!” he thought. “The next stroke will be driven nearer home.”

He felt no fear, however; only mute, helpless rage. In the soldier’s hand the dainty weapon was a thing of marvelous cunning; his vastly superior strength made him practically tireless in this play. Not only tireless; he suddenly accelerated the tempo of the exercise, but behind this unexpected, even passionate, awakening, the spectators felt an unvarying accuracy, a steely coldness of purpose. The blades clicked faster; they met and parted more viciously; the hard light in Saint-Prosper’s eyes grew brighter as he slowly thrust back his antagonist.

Mauville became aware his own vigor was slowly failing him; instead of pressing the other he was now obliged to defend himself. He strove to throw off 274 the lethargy irresistibly stealing over him; to shake the leaden movements from his limbs. He vainly endeavored to penetrate the mist falling before his eyes and to overcome the dizziness that made his foeman seem like a figure in a dream. Was it through loss of blood, or weariness, or both?––but he was cognizant his thrusts had lost force, his plunges vitality, and that even an element of chance prevailed in his parries. But he uttered no sound. When would that mist become dark, and the golden day fuse into inky night?

Before the mist totally eclipsed his sight he determined to make one more supreme effort, and again sprang forward, but was driven back with ease. The knowledge that he was continuing a futile struggle smote him to the soul. Gladly would he have welcomed the fatal thrust, if first he could have sent his blade through that breast which so far had been impervious to his efforts. Now the scene went round and round; the golden day became crimson, scarlet; then gray, leaden, somber. Incautiously he bent his arm to counter an imaginary lunge, and his antagonist thrust out his rapier like a thing of life, transfixing Mauville’s sword arm. He stood his ground bravely for a moment, playing feebly into space, expecting the fatal stroke! When would it come? Then the slate-colored hues were swallowed in a black cloud. But while his mind passed into unconsciousness, his breast was openly presented to his antagonist, and even the count shuddered.

With his blade at guard, Saint-Prosper remained 275 motionless; the land baron staggered feebly and then sank softly to the earth. That fatal look, the expression of a duelist, vanished from the soldier’s face, and, allowing the point of his weapon to drop to the ground, he surveyed his prostrate antagonist.

“Done like a gentleman!” cried the count, breathing more freely. “You had him at your mercy, sir”––to Saint-Prosper––“and spared him.”

A cold glance was the soldier’s only response, as without a word he turned brusquely away. Meanwhile the doctor, hastening to Mauville’s side, opened his shirt.

“He is badly hurt?” asked Barnes, anxiously, of the surgeon.

“No; only fainted from loss of blood,” replied that gentleman, cheerfully. “He will be around again in a day or two.”

The count put away his blades as carefully as a mother would deposit her babe in the cradle.

“Another page of history, my chicks!” he observed. “Worthy of the song of Pindar!”

“Why not Straws or Phazma?” queried the surgeon, looking up from his task.

“Would you have the press take up the affair? There are already people who talk of abolishing dueling. When they do they will abolish reputation with it. And what’s a gentleman got but his honor––demme!” And the royal emissary carefully brushed a crimson stain from the bespattered saint.

By this time the land baron had regained consciousness, 276 and, his wounds temporarily bandaged, walked, with the assistance of the count, to his carriage. As they were about to drive away the sound of a vehicle was heard drawing near, and soon it appeared followed by another equipage. Both stopped at the confines of the Oaks and the friends of the thick-set man––Susan’s admirer––and the young lad, on whom she had smiled, alighted.

“Ha!” exclaimed the doctor, who had accompanied the count and his companion to the carriage. “Number two!”

“Yes,” laughed the count, as he leaned back against the soft cushions, “it promises to be a busy day at the Oaks! Really”––as the equipage rolled on––“New Orleans is fast becoming a civilized center––demme!”