There was Raoul de
Bassempierre whom you compelled to fight you before he was fairly
recovered of a sickness. His blood is still on your hands. Time has not
dried it away. Look! Look! See the red bubbles standing on your wrists!"
Boucher, again as white as death, looked down hastily, and then uttered
a fierce oath. The hunter laughed.
"It's true, Boucher," he said, "and everyone here knows it's true. Why
speak of lies? I don't carry them in my stock, and I've proved that I
don't need them. Come, you wish my death, attack again, but remember
that I'm neither the untrained boy, Gaston Lafitte, nor Raoul de
Bassempierre, wasted from illness."
Boucher rushed at him, and Robert thought he could hear the angry breath
whistling through his teeth. Then he grew cooler, steadied himself and
pushed the offense. His second attack was even more dangerous than the
first, and he showed all the power and cunning of the great swordsman
that he was. Willet slowly gave ground and the spectators began to
applaud. After all, Boucher was a Frenchman and one of themselves,
although it was not the best of the French who were gathered there in
the garden that night--except de Galisonniere and one or two others.
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