Master Kingswell and his party returned from their daring reconnoitre early in the afternoon. They had not met with the enemy, though they had found the camp and torn down the temporary lodges. After that they had followed the broad trail of the retreat for several miles, and had discharged the cannon twice into the inscrutable woods. Their daring had been rewarded by the capture of about two hundred pounds of smoked salmon and dried venison.

Both Kingswell and William Trigget were unable to account for the fact that the savages had not attacked them in the cover of the woods. In reality they owed their bloodless victory to the presence of the little cannon. That third and last discharge of slugs, on the day of the big fight, had killed three of the braves, wounded five more, and inspired an hysterical terror in the hearts of the rest. But for that, the hidden enemy would not have been content with playing a waiting game and with the attempted killing of one man each night; and neither would they have retired, so undemonstratively, before the advance of the five. But, despite their fear of the cannon, they had no intention of giving up the siege of the fort. They placed trust in the darkness of night and their own cunning.

Kingswell and the elder Trigget were drawn aside by Sir Ralph. The baronet looked less care-haunted than he had for years.

"D'Antons and I have broken our truce," he whispered, "and behold, the heavens have not fallen,—nor even the poor defences of this plantation." He smiled cheerfully. "The great captain alone has come to grief," he added. "Maggie Stone saved him from my hand by felling him herself with some sort of stew-pan. I was frantically angry at the time, but am glad now that I did not have to kill the rogue."

"Such cattle are better dead, sir," remarked Trigget, coolly.

"I grant you that, my good William," replied Sir Ralph, "but he is harmless as a new-born babe, after all—and we'll see that he remains so."

Then he told them the story of the duel, and of what had led to it. Kingswell flushed and paled.

"God's mercy!" he cried, "but I would I had been in your boots, sir."

"You'd have died in them, more than likely," replied the baronet, laying a hand on the other's shoulder. "D'Antons has a rare knowledge of swordsmanship, and eye and wrist to back it with."

"Even so," replied Kingswell, "it would have been—it would have been a pleasure to die in such a cause." He blushed, and hurriedly added, "But I doubt if he'd have killed me, for all his gimcrackery and side-stepping. I've seen such gentry hopping and poking for hours, when one good cut from the shoulder would have ended their tricks."

The baronet smiled kindly, though with a tinge of sadness. "Ah, what a fine thing is the heart of youth," he said, "and the confidence of youth. I even bow to the ignorance of youth. But, my dear boy, valour and confidence are not more than half the battle, after all. The edge is a fine thing, and has spilled a deal of blood since the hammering of the first sword; but the point becomes no less deadly simply because one stout young Englishman is ignorant of its potency. Lad, if it were not that I have won the distinction—beside many a less enviable one—of being the best swordsman in England, I could not have withstood D'Antons' play for long enough to make sure of the colour of his eyes."

Kingswell felt like a fool, and did not know which way to turn his abashed countenance. Both Sir Ralph and Trigget felt sorry for him.

"But I can assure you, Bernard," said the former, "that, if it came to a matter of cutlasses, neither the Frenchman nor I would stand up for long against either you or Trigget."

"It is kind of you to say so," replied Kingswell, staring over the baronet's shoulder at nothing in particular, "but I haven't a doubt that even Maggie Stone, with her stew-pan, would be more than a match for me."

William Trigget laughed boisterously at that. "We must ease the young gentleman's temper, sir," he said to the baronet. "I have a pair of singlesticks."

"Get them," said the baronet. He slipped his hand under Kingswell's arm and led him into the cabin. Beatrix welcomed him cordially, with a shy compliment to his bravery thrown in. The youth immediately felt better in his pride.

"Say nothing of D'Antons, or the duel," Sir Ralph whispered in his ear. "He is safe in his own bed, being nursed conscientiously, if not over-tenderly, by Maggie Stone."

Kingswell seated himself beside Mistress Beatrix on the bench by the fire. He noticed that she had been weeping. Her eyes seemed all the brighter for it. He gave her a detailed account of the brief expedition from which he had just returned. He told of the cluster of lodges, the cooking-fires still burning, the utensils and food scattered about, and not a human being in sight.

"And what if you had seen the savages?" she asked. "Surely, four Englishmen and a lad could do nothing against such a host?"

"We would have fallen in the first flight of arrows," replied Kingswell.

"Then why did you risk it?"

The young man shook his head and laughed. "Some one must take risks," he said, "else all warfare would come to a standstill."

The girl was looking down at her hands, and reflectively twisting a jewelled ring around and around on one slim finger. "And I wish it would with all my heart," she sighed. "Warfare and bloodshed—they are the devil's inventions, and strike innocent and guilty alike."

"Nay," replied Kingswell, "there is more harm done to the innocent in courts and fine assemblies, and at the sheltered card-tables, than on all the battle-fields of the world. War is a good surgeon, and, if he sometimes lets the good blood with the bad, why, that's just a risk we must accept."

Beatrix raised a flushed face, and eyed him squarely. "You preach like a Puritan," she said, "with your condemnation of courts and play. You should give my father the benefit of some of your wisdom. His friends have all been generous with such help."

Kingswell bit his lip, and for an awkward minute studied the toes of his moccasins. Presently he looked up.

"I am sorry," he said.

Her glance softened.

"I am as ignorant of battle-fields as I am of courts," he added. "I am ignorant of everything."

His voice was low and bitter. Beatrix laughed softly.

"Pray do not take it so much to heart," she said. "Nothing is so easily mended as ignorance."

He looked at her gravely.

"I am going to ask Sir Ralph to give me lessons in French sword-play," he said. "Is there nothing that you would teach me?"

"Embroidery," she replied, "and how to brew a Madeira punch."

At that moment the baronet opened the door and admitted William Trigget. The master mariner carried a pair of stout oak sticks with basket-work guards under his arm.

"Does your education commence so soon?" inquired Beatrix of Kingswell.

"Somebody's does," he replied, with a return of his old confidence. With the lady's permission and Sir Ralph's assistance, Trigget and Kingswell cleared the middle of the floor of rugs and the table. They removed their outer coats. Trigget was the taller, as well as the heavier, of the two. Without further preliminaries, they fell on, and the dry whacking of the sticks against one another, varied occasionally by the muffled thud of wood against cloth, filled the cabin. It was a fine display of the English style—slash, cut, and guard, with never a side-step nor retreat. After ten minutes of it, Trigget cried "enough," and stumbled out of the danger zone. His right arm was numb. His shoulders and sides ached, and his head swam; Kingswell was without a touch.

Neither Beatrix nor Sir Ralph, nor yet Trigget, for that matter, concealed their astonishment at the result of the bout. "And now, sir," said Kingswell, "I should like a lesson in the other style."

The baronet took down a pair of light, edgeless blades with blunted points. After a few words as to the manner of standing, they crossed the lithe weapons. In a second Kingswell's was jerked from his hand and sent bounding across the room. He recovered it without a word and returned to the combat. By this time the light was failing. After about a dozen passes, he was again disarmed. His gray eyes danced, and he laughed gaily as he picked up his weapon.

"I see the way of that trick," he said.

He returned to the one-sided engagement with, if possible, more energy and eagerness than before. Already he had the attitude and stamping manner of attack to perfection. Sir Ralph tested his defence again and again without slipping through. Three times he tried the circular, twisting stroke with which he had disarmed the novice before without success. Wondering, and slightly irritated, he put out fresh efforts, and forgot all about his defence. The blades rasped, and rang, and whispered. The blunted point was at Kingswell's breast, at his throat, at his eyes; but it never touched. And, just as Mistress Beatrix was about to bid the combatants cease their exertions, because of the gathering dusk, Kingswell's point touched the insignificant but painful wound on the baronet's shoulder. With an exclamation, in which disgust, pain, and amusement were queerly blended, Sir Ralph dropped his foil to the floor.