"
"There you lie, Boucher. You knew him well enough and you can't forget
him if you would. Your face has shown it. It was well that you had
powerful friends then, or you would soon be completing your twentieth
year in the galleys."
The blood rushed back into Boucher's face until it was a blazing red,
and he attacked savagely. Few men could have stood before that powerful
and cunning offense, but Willet met him at every point. Always the
flashing steel was turned aside, and the hunter, cool, patient and
wary, looked like one who, in absolute faith, bided his time.
A gasp came from the spectators. The omens had foretold something
unusual, but here was more than they had expected or had hoped. The
greatest swordsman whom France could send forth had been checked and
held by an unknown hunter, by a Bostonnais, among whom one would not
look for swordsmanship. They stopped for breath and Boucher from under
his dark brows stared at the hunter.
"Mummer," he said. "You claim to know something of me. What other lie
about me can you tell?"
"It's not necessary to tell lies, Pierre Boucher.
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