He was still superbly confident and he took risks that Roger would not have dared to take; yet Roger could not get through his guard. Their eyes never left one another's for a second; but both of them knew that de la Tour d'Auvergne had come up with some of de Caylus's people and was ordering them to carry Count Lucien back to the coach.
So far Roger had required every iota of his skill to defend himself from the violence of the Count's attack; but now, de Caylus, realising at last that he was up against an antagonist worthy of him, began to fight more warily, which enabled Roger to attempt some of his favourite thrusts.
Four times they circled round one another, then he delivered a lunge that he had learned from Monsieur St. Paul, the ex-musketeer fencing-master of Rennes. It very nearly did the trick, but de Caylus jerked himself as upright as a matador on tiptoe before a charging bull, and Roger's blade, missing him by a quarter inch, ripped through the satin lapels of his coat.
Again, for a space they circled warily; then again Roger came in, this time with a thrust that had defeated him in one of his practice bouts only a few days before. But the Count must have known it. Quick as lightning he parried, made a swift encircling movement that almost forced Roger's sword from his hand, and stabbed straight at his eyes.
Roger jerked aside his head and the gleaming blade slithered past his ear; but his evasive action had been so violent that it threw him off his balance. For a second he was poised on the ball of one foot, then he tripped and fell.
With a cry of triumph de Caylus.was upon him, his sword drawn back to skewer him to the ground. Roger flung himself sideways, rolled over twice and was brought up by the roadside bank edging the ditch. As de Caylus came at him again he squirmed over into the ditch, twisted, and came up with one knee on the bank. Throwing up his sword his luck, and not his judgment, enabled him to parry the thrust.
For a moment they fought with renewed ferocity, the Count striving with might and main to finish his antagonist while he had him half crouching in the ditch. The very fury of his attack proved his temporary undoing. Instead of confining himself to thrusts he fought wild, using all his giant strength to beat down Roger's guard. Suddenly his sword snapped off short at the hilt.
As de Caylus jumped back it was Roger's turn to give a cry of triumph. Coming to his feet he sprang out of the ditch and rushed upon his adversary. But, before he could get into position to lunge the Count had flung the hilt of his broken sword in his face.
Roger ducked, but just not quickly enough. The sword hilt caught him ori the forehead, bounced from it and fell with a clang on to the road. For a moment he was half stunned and stood tottering there. De Caylus meanwhile had leapt back once more and cast a frantic glance round. His eye fell upon Count Lucien's sword, which had been left lying by the roadside some fifteen yards away. Rushing towards it, he snatched it up.
By the time Roger had recovered from his knock on the head sufficiently to advance again, de Caylus was on guard and ready for him. Again the deepening shadows echoed to the clash of swords. Up— down. Up—down. Thrust—stamp—parry. Clash—clash—clash.
But both the combatants were tired now. Neither had had a chance to take off their coats or neckbands, and both were streaming with sweat. Panting, gasping, their clothes disordered, their faces haggard and the perspiration trickling into their eyes, they fought doggedly on. Each thrust they gave grew weaker yet neither could get past the other's guard.
Suddenly de Caylus made a desperate bid to end matters. Charging in on Roger he lifted his sword high and lunged downwards. It was a cunning but unorthodox stroke, since it left its deliverer's breast temporarily exposed; yet it was the one that had defeated de la Tour d'Auvergne two months before.
Having heard the Vicomte describe exactly how it had been administered Roger knew the pass. It was his opportunity. Instead of endeavouring to parry the stroke he delivered a counter thrust himself. Lunging with every ounce of his remaining strength he went almost to his knees as he followed through, his left arm flung straight out behind him. De Caylus's blade passed harmlessly over his shoulder; his own pierced the Count through the heart and came out six inches behind his back.
For a moment de Caylus remained standing there, his eyes goggling. Then the blood gushed from his mouth and, with a horrible choking noise, he crashed to the ground. The falling body wrenched Roger's sword-hilt from his hand; he staggered hack, swayed drunkenly, and fell himself.
Almost overcome with exhaustion he lay gasping for breath in the middle of the road; then, dimly, he heard someone shouting at him. De la Tour d'Auvergne had ridden up and, wild with excitement, was congratulating him on his victory. Another voice joined in, and as Roger struggled panting to his knees he saw de Perigord coming at a limping run towards him.
" 'Twas a marvel!" cried the Abbé. "That final thrust of yours was superb! By the most cursed luck I missed the beginning. Before I could get to my coach you had all disappeared, and in following, my fool of a man took the wrong fork of the road a quarter of a mile back. But there is blood on your face. Are you badly hurt?"
"Nay," gasped Roger. "I've naught but a scratch on the shoulder; and a cut on the head—where his sword-hilt struck—when he threw it at me."
The Abbé cast a glance at de Caylus's prostrate body. "He'll throw no more sword-hilts," he said grimly. "I left the doctor in my coach, and the coach just round the bend of the road behind us; since the less he knows the better. Unless you need his ministrations yourself, 'tis pointless to call him."
"I pray you do so, Abbé," cut in the Vicomte. "Count Lucien de Rochambeau is wounded and should have attention."
"What!" exclaimed de Perigord. "Did he then join in the fight?"
Roger nodded. "The young caitiff sought to strike me down from behind. But worse! While I was parleying at the coach door he snatched off my mask and, like an imbecile, cried aloud both my name and his sister's. So all is known. De Caylus's people will be retailing the story to half Paris before another hour is past."
"Sacre bleu! Then the question of your returning to your mother is settled for you. You must fly instantly! To horse, man! To horse!"
De la Tour d'Auvergne manoeuvred Roger's mount round for him, and cried: "The Abbé is right! Your life will depend on the distance you can put between Paris and yourself before morning."
"One moment!" muttered Roger, and putting his foot on de Caylus's carcase he began to tug upon his sword to get it free.
The Vicomte went on quickly to de Perigord. "I had Count Lucien carried back to their coach. One of the footmen is wounded also. I had to shoot him before we could bring them to a halt. 'Twould be wise to leave your doctor to do what he can for them, and get away from here as quickly as possible yourself. In your place I would go into hiding for a while."
The Abbé considered for a moment, then he said! "Nay, 'tis not necessary. I saw only the end of the fight, not its beginning, and shall maintain that having delivered M. le Chevalier de Brook's message to M. de Caylus I was in no way responsible for what followed. But your case, mon cher Vicomte, is very different. Since you pistolled one of the servants, and played a major part in holding up the coach, you have laid yourself open to most serious charges."
"I know it, and intend to seek safety in flight."