The second was hid by
an intervening tree; and as I watched, the third faded into the
phaseless dark. Who were these night-watchers? I liked not that
business of spying--though you may call it scouting, if you will, but I
must either report nothing to M. Radisson, or find out more.
I turned to skirt the group. A pistol-shot rang through the wood. A
sword flashed to light. Before I had time to think, but not--thanks to
M. Picot's lessons long ago--not before I had my own rapier out, an
assassin blade would have taken me unawares.
I was on guard. Steel struck fire in red spots as it clashed against
steel. One thrust, I know, touched home; for the pistol went whirling
out of my adversary's hand, and his sword came through the dark with
the hiss of a serpent. Again I seemed to be in Boston Town; but the
hunting room had become a northland forest, M. Picot, a bearded man
with his back to the fire and his face in the dark, and our slim foils,
naked swords that pressed and parried and thrust in many a foul such as
the French doctor had taught me was a trick of the infamous Blood!
Indeed, I could have sworn that a woman's voice cried out through the
dark; but the rain was in my face and a sword striking red against my
own. Thanks, yes, thanks a thousand times to M.
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