For she would have
understood every feint, longe, parry, and seen at a glance how
Father Beret set the pace and led the race at the beginning. She
would have understood; for Father Beret had taught her all she
knew about the art of fencing.
Hamilton quickly felt, and with a sense of its strangeness, the
priest's masterly command of his weapon. The surprise called up
all his caution and cleverness. Before he could adjust himself to
such an unexpected condition he came near being spitted outright
by a pretty pass under his guard. The narrow escape, while it put
him on his best mettle, sent a wave of superstition through his
brain. He recalled what Barlow had jocularly said about the doings
of the devil-priest or priest-devil at Roussillon place on that
night when the patrol guard attempted to take Gaspard Roussillon.
Was this, indeed, Father Beret, that gentle old man, now before
him, or was it an avenging demon from the shades?
The thought flitted electrically across his mind, while he deftly
parried, feinted, longed, giving his dark antagonist all he could
do to meet the play. Priest or devil, he thought, he cared not
which, he would reach its vitals presently. Yet there lingered
with him a haunting half-fear, or tenuous awe, which may have
aided, rather than hindered his excellent swordsmanship.
Under foot it was slushy with mud, water and ice, the consistency
varying from a somewhat solid crust to puddles that half inundated
Hamilton's boots and quite overflowed Father Beret's moccasins.
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