“You are brave; is it not so?” she asked, with a laugh and a toss of her head that spread her golden hair in sunshine over her shoulders.
Imbert answered in his place. “Very brave, and a fine swordsman!” cried the old pirate, while his black eyes flashed. “All Port Royal knows the young admiral and his famous wrist-play.”
“Admiral!” Again the blue eyes looked into his, and again Biencourt had the same strange feeling, as if the speaker’s thoughts were far away, and she were merely toying with the words.
“Aye!” went on Imbert, coming nearer, and laying his monstrous hands upon the mantel, “the late King Henry made him an admiral for these waters months ere his martyrdom, and since then he has swept the freebooters from the coast.”
His highness the Duc de Montpelier leaned lazily backward in his chair, raising his black eyebrows. “So my good cousin, Henry of Navarre, chose for his admirals beardless boys!” he said very softly and very languidly.
There was an instant hush throughout the room, in which the clatter of the door rose almost to a scream. Imbert drew in his breath with a sharp, hissing sound; the poet looked up from his tablets, and Poutrincourt from the fire. These latter were just in time to see Biencourt leap to his feet and draw his sword, and almost before they understood the cause the fight had begun.
The first of the encounter was much in the duc’s favor. He fenced so strongly behind a certain affectation of disdain, and his thrusts came so subtly home, that, ere five minutes had passed, Biencourt was bleeding from a wound in his left shoulder. The duc lowered his sword and surveyed his opponent. “Are you satisfied, monsieur?” he asked placidly.
Imbert drew near and examined the wound. “A scratch!” he called, contemptuously. Then, with a warning look, he lounged back to his position by the mantel. The room was very still as the two faced each other again,--the duc, dark and pale; Biencourt, with a crimson flush upon his cheeks.
There was the same writhing of swords, the same chilly music of steel, and once again the duellists swayed to and fro. Then for the second time the duc’s sword found its mark; this time not far below the heart.
Biencourt leaned back, ashen white, upon Lescarbot’s shoulder. His blood flowed fast and his eyes were closed as if in pain. The duc himself approached and surveyed him, leaning the while a trifle wearily upon his sword, for the last bout had been a fierce one.