than his deformity compelled, his white teeth showed in a grimace of hatred; he was half-crouched, like an animal ready to spring.
"Take up the sword, or I'll run you through the heart where you stand!" he continued, in a hoarse whisper. "I will give you till I can count three. Then, by the God in Heaven!"
Fournel felt that he had to deal with a man demented. The blow he had received had laid open the flesh on his cheek-bone and blood was flowing from the wound. Never in his life before had he been so humiliated. And by a Frenchman! it roused every instinct of race-hatred in him. Yet he wanted not to go at him with a sword, but with his two honest hands and beat him into a whining submission. But the man was deformed, he had none of his own robust strength—he was not to be struck, but to be tossed out of the way like an offending child.
He stanched the blood from his face, and made a step forward without a word, determined not to fight, but to take the weapon from the other's hands.
"Coward!" said the Seigneur. "You dare not fight with the sword. With the sword we are even. I am as strong as you there—stronger, and I will have your blood. Coward! Coward! Coward! I will give you till I count three. One! … Two! …"
Fournel did not stir. He could not make up his mind what to do. Cry out? No one could come in time to prevent the onslaught—and onslaught there would be, he knew. There was a merciless hatred in the Seigneur's face, a deadly purpose in his eyes; the wild determination of a man who did not care whether he lived or died, ready to throw himself upon a hundred in his hungry rage. It seemed so wild, so mon-
