Sir Ralph Westleigh was in the storehouse, Maggie Stone was gossiping with Dame Trigget, and Beatrix was alone by the fire when Captain d'Antons rapped on the cabin door, and entered without waiting for a summons. He was dressed in his bravest suit and finest boots. After closing the door behind him, he bowed low to the girl at the farther end of the room. She instantly stood up and curtseyed with a deal of grace, but no warmth whatever.

"My father is not in, Captain d'Antons," she said.

He smiled and approached her with every show of deference.

"Ah, mademoiselle," he murmured, "I have not come to see the good baronet. I have come to learn my fate from the dearest lips in the world."

The girl blushed crimson, with a tumult of emotions that almost forced the tears past her lids. Fear, hate, and a reckless joy at the thought that she was done with pretence struggled in her heart. She tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat, and accomplished nothing but a dry sob.

D'Antons' eyes shone with ardour. The hope which had been somewhat clouded of late flashed clear again. "Beatrix," he cried, softly, "I have wooed you long. Is it not that I have won at last beyond peradventure? Do not deny it, my sweet." He caught her to him, and attempted to kiss her bright lips; but, with a low cry and a quite unexpected display of strength, she wrenched herself from his embrace. She did not try to leave the room. She did not call for help. She faced him, with flashing eyes and angry cheeks and clinched hands.

The fellow stood uncertain for a moment, showing his chagrin and amazement like any country clown. But his recovery was quick. His mouth took on a thin smile; his eyes darkened with sinister shadows. He looked the girl coolly up and down. He laughed softly.

"This feigned anger adds to your beauty, Beatrix," he said.

"I beg you to leave me, sir," she replied, trembling. "Your presence is distasteful to me."

"A sudden turn," said he. "Now a month ago, or even a week ago, you seemed of a different mind. As for the days of our first meeting in merry London—ah, then your lips were not so unattainable."

"I hate you," she murmured. "I despise you. I loath you. You taint the air for me. Dog, to make a boast of having filched a kiss from a light-hearted girl—who did not know you for the common fellow that you are."

"Beatrix," cried the man, "this is no stage comedy. We are not players. I have asked you, too many times, to be my wife. I ask you once more. You know that your father's life is in my hands. Tell me now, will you promise to marry me, or will you let your father go to the gallows in the spring, and this plantation be put to the torch? Whatever your choice, my beauty, you will accompany me to New Spain next summer. It is for you to say whether you go as my wife or my mistress."

At that the girl's face went white as paper. But her eyes were steady.

D'Antons lowered his gaze. He was half-ashamed, nay, more than that, of his words.

"It would be hard to say," she replied, very softly, "which would be the most dishonourable position for an English gentlewoman to occupy. That of your wife, I think, monsieur—for, as your wife, she would be known by your name."

His shame leaped to anger at that soft-spoken insult. He caught her roughly by the wrists.

"Nay," she said, "you must be more gentle. You seem to forget that you are not sacking a defenceless town. Also, you forget that you have not a friend or a follower in this wilderness, and that any man or woman in the fort would shoot you down like a dog at a word from me."

For a little while they eyed each other steadily enough—her face still beautiful despite the bantering cruelty of lips and eyes, and the loathing in every line of it; his the face of a devil. Then, with a muttered oath, he closed his fingers on her tender flesh, pressing with all his strength.

"Ah, my fine lady," he cried, harshly, "you think yourself strong enough to flout Pierre d'Antons, do you? Strong enough to spurn the protection of a soldier and a gentleman! Cry now for your girl-faced Kingswell—for your golden-haired fellow countryman."

By that even her lips were colourless, and her eyes were wet. "There is no need," she said, bravely, "for I hear my father at the door."

D'Antons dropped her wrists and took a backward step. In doing so, his heel struck the leg of a stool, and the scabbard of his sword rang discordantly. He reeled, recovering himself just as Sir Ralph crossed the threshold. Before either of the men had time to speak, Beatrix darted forward and struck the Frenchman savagely across the face with her open hand. Then, without a word of either explanation or greeting to her father, she passed D'Antons swiftly, sped down the length of the room, and entered her own chamber.

"What does this mean, captain?" inquired the baronet, coldly. D'Antons, scarcely recovered from the blow, strode toward him.

"What does it mean?" he cried. "It means, my fine old cock, that your neck will be pulled out of joint when we get away from this God-forgotten desolation. Ah, you liar, why did I not have you strung up to a yard-arm when you were safely in my power? Stab me, but I've been too soft—and my reward is insults from the wench of an exiled card-cheat and murderer."

His voice was raised almost to a scream. His face quivered with passion. He thrust it within a few inches of the baronet's.

"Liar and cheat," he cried, furiously.

"Softly, softly," replied Sir Ralph. "I cannot abide being bawled at in my own house, especially by such scum of a French muck heap as you. Keep your distance, fellow, or, by God, I'll do you a hurt. What's this! You'd presume?"

They withdrew on the instant. The two swords came clear in the same second of time.

"Gabier de potence," cried D'Antons.

"Canaille," replied the baronet, blandly. Evidently the rasp of the steel had mended his temper. He even smiled a little at his adoption of his adversary's mother-tongue.

The men were excellently matched as swordsmen. But not more than half a dozen passes had been made and parried before Beatrix ran into the room, crying to them to put up their swords.

"Go back," said the baronet, with his eyes on D'Antons, "go back to your room, my daughter, and make a prayer for this fellow's soul. It will soon stand in need of a petition for God's mercy."

The girl went softly back and closed the door, in an effort to shut out the rasping and metallic striking of the blades. She prayed, but for strength to her father's wrist and not for the Frenchman's soul. She was afraid—desperately afraid. The truth of her father's skill in French sword-play had been kept from her. To her he was but a courteous, middle-aged gentleman who needed her care, and who had been maligned and robbed by the world into which he had been born. He was a good father. He had been a loving and considerate husband. She knelt beside her bed and beseeched God to succour him in this desperate strait.

In the meantime the fight went on in the outer room with more the air of a harmless bout for practice than a duel to the death. It was altogether a question of point and point, in the Continental manner, perfectly free from the swinging attack and clanging defence of the English style. The combatants were cool, to judge by appearances. Neither seemed in any hurry. The thrusts and lunges, though in fact as quick as thought, were delivered with a manner suggestive of elegant leisure.

"I believe you have the advantage of me by about three inches of steel," remarked the baronet, diverting a lightning thrust from its intended course.

"A chance of the game," replied D'Antons, smiling grimly.

Just then the baronet's foot slipped on the edge of a book of verses which Mistress Beatrix had left on the floor. For a second he was swerved from his balance; and, when he recovered, it was to feel the warm blood running down his breast from a slight incision in his left shoulder. But his recovery was as masterly as it was swift, and the Frenchman found himself more severely pressed than before, despite the advantage he possessed in the superior length of his sword. The little wound counted for nothing.

Just what the outcome of the fight would have been, if an untimely interruption in the person of Maggie Stone had not intervened, it is hard to say. Perhaps D'Antons' youth would have claimed the victory in the long run, or perhaps the baronet's excellent composure. In skill they were nicely matched, though the Englishman displayed superiority enough to even the difference in the length of the blades. But why take time for idle surmises? Maggie Stone, looking in, all unheeded, at the open door, saw her beloved master engaged in a desperate combat with a person whom she despised as well as feared. She saw the sodden stain of blood on her master's doublet. In her hand she held a skillet which she had just borrowed from Dame Trigget. Without waiting to announce herself, she rushed into the room and dealt Captain d'Antons a resounding whack on the head with the iron bowl of the utensil. The long sword fell from the benumbed fingers and clanged on the floor. With a low, guttural cry, the Frenchman followed it, and sprawled, unconscious, at the feet of the surprised and indignant baronet.