"
While he spoke he watched the shadows across the road.
"Both have knives," he said, "but they cannot get near me. Stay where
you are."
"All right," said Cartoner. "Haven't had a chance yet."
And he gave a low laugh, which Deulin had only heard once or twice
before in all the years that they had known each other.
"That's the best," he said, half to himself, "of dealing with a man who
keeps his head. Here they come, Cartoner--here they come."
And he went out to meet them.
But only one came forward. They knew that unless they kept together,
Deulin could not hold them both in check. The very fact of their
returning to the attack--thus, with a cold-blooded courage--showed that
they were Poles. In an instant Deulin divined their intention. He ran
forward, his blade held out in front of him. Even at this moment he
could not lay aside the little flourish--the quick, stiff pose--of the
fencer.
His sword made a dozen turns in the air, and the point of it came down
lightly, like a butterfly, on the man's shoulder. He lowered it further,
as if seeking a particular spot, and then, deliberately, he pushed it in
as if into a cheese.
"Voila, mon ami," he said, with a sort of condescension as if he had
made him a present.
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