She could not answer; her breath had deserted her, and she merely stood there, one hand resting on the table, her frightened eyes fixed on the man confronting her.
But at his first step forward she sprang in front of him. She strove to speak; the infernal blaze in his eyes terrified her.
"Is _this_ what you have done to me?" he said; and moved to pass her, but she caught his arm, and he halted.
"My God!" he said, "it would not surprise me to find him here in the house!... He _is_ here--or you would never wear a face like that!... What do you mean to do, block my way in my own house?" as she confronted him.
"Kurt--" Her white lips merely formed the word.
Behind them a voice broke in quietly: "I'll answer for us all.... Don't touch that holster, General! I can kill you first.... Now, then, am I to pass that door without violence?... Because I'm going to pass it one way or another----"
He came forward, his naked sabre shining in the candle light, his grey eyes level, cool, and desperate.
Von Reiter stared at this tall young fellow in the gay uniform of the Guides. His hand, which had instantly moved toward his holster, remained suspended.
"I am going out of that door," repeated Guild.
"Will General Baron von Reiter be good enough to move aside?"
The German's eyes narrowed. "So," he said very quietly, "it is not to be the hand after all, but an exchange of cards. I am not sorry--" With a movement too swift for the eye to follow, his sword was out and glittering in his hand, and he sprang on Guild, beating at his guard, raining blows like lightning.
The girl had fallen against the table, one hand at her throat as though choking back the bursting cry of fright; her brain rang with the dissonance and metallic clamour; the flashing steel dazzled her. Two oak chairs fell crashing as Guild gave ground under the terrific onslaught; there was not a word spoken, not a sound except the infernal din of the sabres and the ceaseless shifting of armed heels on the floor.
Suddenly von Reiter went down heavily; the doormat slipping under foot had flung him to the floor with a crash across a fallen chair. After a second or two he groaned.
Guild looked down at him, bewildered, sword in hand--watched him as he struggled to his feet. The German was ghastly white. A fit of coughing shook him and he tried to disguise it with his hand.