Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 139: what you’re looking at

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

CLOVELLY. Clovelly saw the four men crouched in the intensity of their interest, following the at- tack and the defense with little movements of their hands, as though they recognized the working of two masters here and were intent not to miss one portion of the lesson. There was the crone, too, laughing in the moonshine and the lamplight, and rubbing her withered hands in a savage ecstasy. There, last of all, was Cecily, with her hands clasped, and her face raised. She was praying—and for his victory! “God in heaven!” cried Clovelly to his heart of hearts. ‘‘ If she is not true, there ‘s no truth on earth.” He put by thrust and lunge. He gave oack an inch in spite of himself, and felt his right heel sink a little in the treacher- ous, soft garden earth. “ More art, monsieur! More art and less strength!” he said to Lascelle. “I have played with you long enough. In a mo- ment I begin to give you a lesson.” “Vou dog!” snarled Lascelle. “ Here is ‘he final stroke!”’ And he lunged to the full of his long arm and agile body. But venom had made him hold that stroke an instant too long, and beating it aside with a strong parry, Clovelly side-stepped into the open, and danced away from the garden edge into the center of the turf where the footing was arm beneath him. There was a general shout to attest this important achievement, and again the voice of the hidden watcher: “Bravo, Clovelly! matched!” Lascelle repaid that exclamation with a snarl, and closed again. A feint, a lunge, a thrust in rapid succession. Then he rushed in past the point of Clovelly until their bodies struck together. There was no room to use swords then, There was no time to shorten the weapons, either, and Lascelle, twisting his leg about that of Clovelly, cast him off balance and threw him heavily. It would have been the death of any ordinary man, but Clovelly was no inert and stunned figure. He landed on the turf as a cat might have landed, and twisted lightly to his feet again. Lascelle, you are 295 Even so he would have died, but Lascelle, thrusting murderously when his man fell, had missed his twisting target and passed half the length of his rapier into the turf. Before he could disengage his point, Clovel- ly was on his feet. “Foul!” cried the voice of the hidden watcher. “A foul stroke, Lascelle, by Heaven!” | “The fortunes of war!” answered Las- celle, panting with his work. “ Luck has saved you, Clovelly, for the last time.” ‘‘ Hear me, Lascelle,”’ said Clovelly, anger making him cold, according to his peculiar nature. ‘‘ This is not Clovelly. It is the ghost of Darnac come to take revenge upon you. I remember now. It was such a trick as this that killed Darnac. But it has failed now. You are a dead man, Lascelle.” ‘You lie!” groaned Lascelle. But he gave back a little, as if to recover breath, and looked furiously around him at the black faces of the four men who watched, and who had instinctively run closer at this display of unfair tactics. “ Aye,” said Clovelly instantly, “ look around you, Lascelle. Your last look at the moon. Your last scent of the night wind. You have not a minute before you. Darnac—Darnac—is waiting!” And he leaped in to the attack. Lascelle gave back, returned with a coun- ter assault, maintained even war for half a heart-breaking minute, and then retreated again. There was a tumult in the court. The hidden watcher was shouting his enthusi- asm. The four men, quite won over from Lascelle by his recent exhibition of foul. play, now cheered the victorious progress of Clovelly. But the latter fought even more with his tongue than with his sword. “Stand fast, Lascelle,” he panted. “ Brave Frenchman, do not run away, I beg you!” Lascelle grinned in the savagery of his hatred, but he dared not waste breath upon an answer. Still the dancing point of the Englishman’s rapier was before his eyes, and still he retired. ‘* Beware the soft ground!” cried Clovel- ly suddenly. Lascelle, in spite of himself, pttered. an