"I see the wolf growls as much as ever!" said the patroon. "Here's a quiet corner. Come; tell me what I've forgotten."

"Good!" returned the other. "You can tell me about your travels as we fence."

"Hang my travels!" replied the patroon, as they leisurely engaged.

"They've brought me nothing but regrets."

"_Feinte flanconnade_--well done!" murmured Spedella. "So it was not honey you brought home from your rambles? _Feinte seconde_ and decisive tierce! It's long since I've touched a good blade. These glove-sellers and perfume-dealers--"

"You are bitter against trade, my bravo," remarked the land baron.

"I was spoiling with languor when you came. Not bad, that feint--but dangerous, because of the possibility of misjudging the attack. Learn the paroles he affects to-morrow by quick, simple thrusts, and then you will know what feints to attack him with. Time in octave--you quitted the blade in a dangerous position. Cluck; cluck, my game c.o.c.k!

Intemperance has befogged your judgment; high-living has dimmed your--"

"You have it!" laughed the land baron.

The b.u.t.ton of his foil touched the old bravo's breast; the steel was bent like a bow.

Spedella forgot his English and swore in soft and liquid Italian. "I looked around to see how those ribbon-venders were getting on," he said after this euphonious, foreign prelude. "They pay me; I have to keep an eye on them. All the same," he added, generously, "there isn't another man in New Orleans could have stopped that stroke--except myself!"

"Will I do--for to-morrow?" asked the patroon, moodily.

The master c.o.c.ked his head quizzically; his deep-set eyes were soft and friendly.

"The devil's with him, if you don't put your spur in him, my bantam!"

CHAPTER V

THE MEETING BENEATH THE OAKS

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 a.s.sembled 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, 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 a.s.surance 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 lighted by disdain, but smoldering with fiercer pa.s.sions as he examined and tested his blade.

"Engage!" exclaimed the count.

With ill-concealed eagerness, Mauville began a vigorous, although guarded attack, as if a.s.serting 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 a.s.sertion, 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 princ.i.p.al'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 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 l.u.s.t 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.