THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
“Ah, monsieur,” he said, “did I not teach them well their thrust and parry?”
“Too well, indeed; Destouches himself could not have done better. I would you had given them less skill, mon ami.”
“’Twas Craik—my favorite stroke—in tierce,” he gasped, and then his head fell back against Jacquard. Presently he revived and looked at Barbara and Bras-de-Fer, while another smile played at the corner of his blue eye.
“Madame,” he whispered to Barbara—“madame, he has loved ye long and well. Take him to London and there serve him as a boucanier and renegado should be served. Take him prisoner to yer house and yer heart, and keep him there for as long as ye both shall live.” A spasm of pain shot across his features, and he clutched at his wound. “Bedad,” he said, “but the plaguy thing burns at me like an ember. It’s nearly over, I’m thinking. René,” he cried, “my dear man, if ye tell them at the barracks that I was brought to my death by the low thrust in tierce in the hands of such a lout, I’ll come from my grave and smite ye. An’ if ye see my
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