  Of all the men I ever saw this stranger struck my fancy to the highest degree. He strode into the room with as much confidence and poise as though he were the actual master of the house and we the humblest of his servants. He looked neither to the right nor the left. Yet, as he passed us, without shifting his gaze, he seemed to sweep each of us out of the corner of his eye with a glance that measured us from head to heel. He stopped at the great oaken table and raised his hat with a sort of mincing delicacy. With a swish through the air he knocked the water from it and laid it carefully down. When he took off his cloak we saw that he carried a silver mounted sword and wore a doublet and breeches of the finest velvet ornamented about the edges with a fine lace. He curled his moustache with his thumb and forefinger. Then, with his hand over his heart and a bland smile on his face he turned and bowed with as much reverence as you would pay to a king. “I’ll never forget this,” he said, but there his voice dropped so that the rest of it sounded like hollow mockery,“—this unexpected hospitality.” AndrÉ was the first to speak. “It’s a sour night,” said he carefully eyeing the stranger’s wet boots and dripping clothes, “for a man to be abroad.” The visitor gave a short laugh. “A little warmth,” he replied with a nod towards the hearth, “would add greatly to my comfort.” He began to chafe his hands the one in the other as though he were frozen to the marrow. “Will you please bestir yourself!” There was a ring of insolence in his tone. His words, though uttered smoothly, had a kind of sly meaning at the bottom that touched us to the quick. It was clear that he intended to nettle us. The old Lord of Gramont squared his shoulders. He let out a low quiet whistle and walked away. But AndrÉ, who was quicker and more easily hurt, flushed the color of scarlet and knotted his fists. For a moment there was empty silence. Our visitor looked at each of us in turn with the corners of his lips curved in a taunting smile. He strutted past the hearth with his spurs clanking and glanced with a sneer about the room. “I have often heard that the cattle in Normandy were better housed than their masters,” he began. “It’s even colder here than it is out of doors.” “That is one reason why we are so healthy,” replied my brother looking him full in the face. “And that is why we are so strong.” 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. We rose from our seats. “I was making down the road towards the armorer’s where I left my horse. I was set upon by a band of men. Look here!” he exclaimed and drew an arrow from under his cloak. “But for the coat of mail I was wearing this would have gone through my heart!” “Have you enemies in the neighborhood?” demanded the old Count. “There are enemies following me,” declared De Marsac. “There is one who would snap out my life as you would snap a piece of straw. But this is not his work. This is the work of another.” Terrified, he looked around the room. “Have you ever heard of the ‘Will-o’-the-Wisp’?” he asked. “No. Who is he?” we cried together. “A highwayman,” he answered. “—a bold desperate highwayman. For a month at a time he terrifies the countryside. Then he disappears. Miles and miles away he is heard from again. He is seldom seen. He works alone. It is his disguises that trick people. He can masquerade as a nobleman, a beggar, a soldier—anything.” He flung himself into a chair but was up in a flash again. “Gentlemen, we have had our little dispute,” he said hurriedly. “It is all over now and done with. You see I cannot venture out into the night without fear for my life. In the name of your hospitality I am going to ask you to let me rest here until the morning.” The old Count looked warningly at my brother and silently shook his head ‘no.’ But AndrÉ, who was easily touched on the softer side, arose and bowed. “I offer you every courtesy,” he said quietly. “It is past midnight and no doubt you are weary from your ride. I shall light you to your room.” He took the candle and went before. In a few minutes he was down again. “I could not do otherwise,” he explained. “He is not to be trusted, AndrÉ,” I said. “The man’s a rogue,” added the Count of Gramont. “If I were you, AndrÉ, I would put a guard about the house. There’s something brewing that we have no knowledge of.” “I shall have one of the servants watch in the hall upstairs,” my brother said. “Another will stay here during the night. We must learn what his purpose is so that we can meet the situation. In the morning if he smiles again, I shall be like honey to him. I think that is the better way.” The old Count laughed in his throat and grunted. “If this were my house,” he said, “I would make short work of him.” And he made a sign that meant that he would string him to a tree. We were all tired. One by one we bade each other goodnight and went to bed. |
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