With the fury of a maddened bull, D'Herouville engaged the vicomte. He
was the vicomte's equal in all save generalship. The vicomte loved,
next to madame, the game of fence, and he loved it so thoroughly that
his coolness never fell below the level of his superb courage.
Physically, there was scarce a hair's difference in the weight of the
two men. But a parried stroke, or a nicely balked assault, stirred
D'Herouville's heat; if repeated the blood surged into his head, and he
was often like to throw caution to the winds. Once his point scratched
the vicomte's jaw.
"Very good," the vicomte admitted, lunging in flanconade. His blade
grated harshly against D'Herouville's hilt. It was close work.
They disengaged. D'Herouville's weapon flashed in a circle. The
vicomte's parry was so fine that his own blade lay flat against his
side.
"Count, you would be wonderful if you could keep cool that fat head of
yours. That is as close as I ever expect to come and pull out."
Presently the end came. D'Herouville feinted and thrust for the
throat. Quick as a wind-driven shadow the vicomte dropped on a knee;
his blade taking an acute angle, glided under D'Herouville's arm and
slid noiselessly into the broad chest of his opponent, who opened his
mouth as if to speak, gasped, stumbled and fell upon his face, dead.
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