Adventure Magazine Cover — page 18: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

F2 when the traveler swept aside his robes and sprang from the sledge. They beheld not a Muscovite or Turk but a slender figure, diminutive beside their towering bodies, in scarlet boots, buck-skin breeches and trim greatcoat. Out of a lean, mobile face blue eyes scanned them coldly, yet with a hidden glint of mirth. But what stirred their ridicule were the black ringlets that fell from the plumed hat to the lace collar of Sir Michael of Rohan. ‘“‘Their weapons would snap your blade, excellence,’’ muttered Giorgos. “IT warrant me,’ responded the traveler dryly, “‘ye have not seen a rapier at. work.”’ Whereat he whipped from its scabbard of Spanish leather—a trifle worn, in truth—a straight, tapering length of steel that gleamed blue in the sunlight—a three-edged shaft of Toledo forging that he bent nearly double in his powerful fingers and released with a thin hum. It was not too long, the blade, and at its base it tapered to an inch in width where the hand-guard joined. And Sir Michael of Rohan laughed, for the blood was warm in his veins that morning, and it was his way to stand his ground when opposition offered. Sir Michael, bending his blade between his fingers, studied Demid from under level brows noticing the lithe figure, half a head taller than himself, the long reach of the Cossack, the jeweled hilt of the curved simitar, and the silver cross at the warrior’s throat. “George, lad, say to the handsome bucko that I have no wish to draw blood; nay, at the third pass I will pluck out his neckcloth.”’ More than once he had matched weapons with the Moslems and he knew the infalli- bility of the straight blade in a hand such as his. Years of campaigning in Flanders and Italy had schooled him in his work. The salle d’armes in Paris had added finish to his skill; he had mastered the tricks of the Italian school, and men who had been so unlucky as to face him in duels had died. He was a mattre d’escrime, and so sure was he of the result of the coming encounter, he would have waged the sum of his pos- sessions—if he had any—upon the third thrust. But his greatcoat »was neatly mended in more than one place and his vest—Sir Michael sighed—his waistcoat was shabby, indeed. Demid, on his part, smiled and, touching Adventure the green silk cloth around his throat, shook his head. “Garde-tot, mon sauvagel’’ cried the trav- eler, bending his knees and sweeping the rapier overhead, releasing the tip as he did so. The Cossacks urged their ponies around the pair eagerly, pleased at an unexpected entertainment. Demid saluted briefly with his simitar, and engaged at once, making a careless cut. It was warded. Again the light blade of the simitar caressed the thin line of the rapier—then swept it aside and cut swiftly at the trav- eler’s head. His blade passed through air; Sir Michael had drawn back, from his knees, and for two seconds Demid lost touch with him. In that time the Cossack felt a tug at his throat, a tiny burning of his skin as if a pin had passed across it. Drawing back he beheld Sir Michael smil- ing, the green silk neckcloth resting on the tip of the rapier. The brows of the young Cossack drew together and the dark blood rushed into his face. To be tricked, like a buffoon—to be played with, like a puppy! feast BEHOLDING the mask of anger © MCS that transformed the face of the chief, Sir Michael let the silk fall instantly and stood on guard, his left hand raised in the air behind his head, the point of his blade describing tiny circles. Demid rushed as a Cossack attacks, with unrestrained, reckless fury. His simitar flashed around and over the rapier; stcel shthered against steel; but always the thin blade was between the simitar and the body of the smaller man. It was Sir Michael now who was careful to keep touch with his enemy, content to rest on the defensive until Demid’s fury had spent itself. For a while he stood his ground; but Demid’s strength did not exhaust itself. Instead, Sir Michael gave ground a little under the whirlwind slashes. He was breathing quickly, perspiration under his eyes, the corners of his lips smiling a trifle. si His rear foot, exploring the uneven trail cautiously, felt deep snow, and his knees stiffened. ‘“‘No help for it,’’ he muttered. And with that he took the offensive. Demid, who had been startled out of his usual composure by the first thrust, yet felt the change in the touch of the rapier, and, turning the point of his saber down, COmiclboolks ©