His own fierce rush was met and he was driven back. The ghosts of
the boy, Gaston Lafitte, of the sick man Raoul de Bassempierre, and of
the indifferent swordsman, Raymond de Neville who had been cheated at
cards, came back, and they helped Willet wield his weapon. His figure
broadened and grew. His blade was no longer of steel, it was a strip of
lightning that played around the body and face of the dazzled bravo. It
was verily true that the hands of four men grasped the hilt, the ghosts
of the three whom he had murdered long ago, and Willet who stood there
in the flesh before him.
A reluctant buzz of admiration ran through the crowd. Many of them had
come from Paris, but they had never seen such swordsmanship before.
Whoever the hunter might be they saw that he was the master swordsman of
them all. They addressed low cries of warning to Boucher: "Have a care!"
"Have a care!" "Save your strength!" they said. But de Galisonniere
stood, tight-lipped and silent. Nor did Robert and Tayoga feel the need
of saying anything to their champion.
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