A strange and springing new
life seemed to have entered his watery veins. A flare of the old-time
fire rose up within him: he was again the prince of a hundred duels.
On reaching the room, he lit all the candles and arranged them so as to
leave no shadows. Next he poured out a glass of wine and drank it,
drew his rapier, and bared his arm.
At the sight of that arm, thin and white, D'Herouville felt all his ire
ooze from his pores. He could not measure swords with this old man,
who stood near enough to his grave without being sent into it offhand.
"Monsieur, forgive me for striking an old man, who is visibly my
inferior in strength and youth. My anger got the better of me. Your
courage compels my admiration. I can not fight you."
The marquis spat upon the floor. "On guard, Monsieur!"
"If you insist;" and D'Herouville stepped forward carelessly.
The blades came together. Then followed a sight for the paladins. For
it took D'Herouville but a moment to learn why the marquis had been
called the prince of a hundred duels. Only twice in his life had he
met such a master.
"I am old, eh, Monsieur?" said the marquis, making an assault which
D'Herouville, had his blade swerved the breadth of a hair, would never
have neutralized.
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