"Yes," she flung back passionately. "I prefer you as an enemy."
He laughed at that--a fiendish, scoffing laugh that made her shrink in
every nerve. Then, with unmoved composure, he walked to the mantelpiece
and took up one of the foils that lay there.
"Now," he said quietly, "since you are determined to fight me, so be it!
But when you are beaten, Mademoiselle Stephanie, do not ask for mercy!"
But she drew back sharply from his advance. "Take one of those rapiers,"
she said.
He shook his head, still with that mocking smile upon his lips. "This
will serve my purpose better," he said. "Are you ready, mademoiselle? On
guard!"
And with that his weapon crossed hers. She knew his purpose the moment
she encountered it. It was written in every grim line of his
countenance. He meant the conflict to be very short.
She was no novice in the art of fencing, but she was no match for him.
Moreover, she could not meet the pitiless eyes that stared straight into
hers. They distracted her. They terrified her. Yet every moment seemed
to her to be something gained. Through all the wild chaos of her
overstrung nerves she was listening, listening desperately, for the
sound of feet outside the door. If she could only withstand him for a
few short seconds! If only her strength would last!
But she was nearing exhaustion, and she knew it. Her brain had begun to
swim.
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