For that act I cherish his memory. The thought was worthy of a
gentleman of breeding; he had the true thing in his heart. He
would save us--two brothers--from fighting, by fighting me himself.
He reached me first, and with an "Au diable!" made a stroke at
me. It was a matter of sword and sabre now. Clark met Juste
Duvarney's rush; and there we were, at as fine a game of
cross-purposes as you can think: Clark hungering for Gabord's life
(Gabord had once been his jailer, too), and Juste Duvarney for
mine; the battle faring on ahead of us. Soon the two were clean
cut off from the French army, and must fight to the death or
surrender.
Juste Duvarney spoke only once, and then it was but the
rancorous word "Renegade!" nor did I speak at all; but Clark
was blasphemous, and Gabord, bleeding, fought with a sputtering
relish.
"Fair fight and fowl for spitting," he cried. "Go home to heaven,
dickey-bird."
Between phrases of this kind we cut and thrust for life, an odd
sort of fighting. I fought with a desperate alertness, and
presently my sword passed through his body, drew out, and he
shivered--fell--where he stood, collapsing suddenly like a bag.
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