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“The fact, then, of having been expelled from two regiments for your highhanded acts, and finally transferred to the garrison of the fortress of Glatz as punishment, has not cured you of your fire-eating propensities?”

“When a man has the reputation of being the best swordsman in Prussia he values that title somewhat more than your military rank, which any clumsy fool can obtain.”

“You, the best swordsman!” exclaimed Trenck, concluding his remark with an ironical puff of smoke.

“I flatter myself that such is the case,” retorted Bach, emitting in turn a great cloud of tobacco-smoke.

“If I were free,” said Trenck, “I might, perhaps, prove to you in short order that such is not the case.”

“Do you claim to be my master at that art?”

“I flatter myself that such is the case.”

“That we shall soon see,” cried Bach, flushing with rage.

“How can we? I am disarmed and a prisoner.”

“Ah, yes, you make your claim out of sheer boastfulness, because you think we cannot put it to the test!”

“Truly, lieutenant, set me at liberty and I swear to you that on the other side of the frontier we will put our skill to the test as freely as you like!”

“Well, I am unwilling to wait for that. We will fight here, Baron Trenck.”

“In this room?”

“After your assertion, I must either humble your arrogance or lose my reputation.”

“I shall be glad to know how you propose to do so?”

“Ah, you talk of Bohemia because that country is far away. As for me, I prefer this one, because it affords an immediate opportunity to put the matter to the test.”

“I should ask nothing better if it were not impossible.”

“Impossible! You shall see if it be.”

Bach sprang up. An old door, supported by a couple of benches, had been placed in the chamber for a table. He hammered at the worm-eaten wood and knocked off a strip which he split in half. One of these substitutes for rapiers he gave to Trenck, retaining the other himself, and both placed themselves on guard.

After the first few passes, Trenck sent his adversary’s make-shift sword flying through space, and with his own he met the lieutenant full in the chest.

“Touche!” he cried.

“Heavens! It is true!” growled Bach. “But I’ll have my revenge!”

He went out hastily. Trenck watched him in utter amazement and he was even more astounded when, an instant later, he saw Bach return with a couple of swords, which he drew out from beneath his uniform.

“Now,” he said to Trenck, “it is for you to show what you can do with good steel!”

“You risk,” returned the baron, smiling calmly, “you risk, over and above the danger of being wounded, losing that absolute superiority in matters of the sword of which you are so proud.”

“Defend yourself, braggart!” shouted Bach. “Show your skill instead of talking about it.”

He flung himself furiously upon Trenck. The latter, seeming only to trifle lightly with his weapon at first, parried his thrusts, and then pressed the attack in turn, wounding Bach severely in the arm.

The lieutenant’s weapon clattered upon the floor. For an instant he paused, immovable, overcome by amazement; then an irresistible admiration–a supreme tenderness, invaded his soul. He flung himself, weeping, in Trenck’s arms, exclaiming:

“You are my master!”

Then, drawing away from the prisoner, he contemplated him with the same enthusiasm, but more reflectively, and observed:

“Yes, baron, you far exceed me in the use of the sword; you are the greatest duelist of the day, and a man of your caliber must not remain longer in prison.”

The baron was somewhat taken by surprise at this, but, with his usual presence of mind, he immediately set himself to derive such profit as he might from his guardian’s extravagant access of affection.

“Yes, my dear Bach,” he replied, “yes, I should be free for the reason you mention, and by every right, but where is the man who will assist me to escape from these walls?”