The Rat Trap
"Be the way," he suggested suddenly. "Faith, 'tis meself that's growing forgetful, monsieur. Before I put ye out of your misery, tell me now, where is little Duke Jehan?"
"Be silent, dog!" snarled the prince.
"Be polite, ye scum of the earth!"
And O'Rourke, feinting, put his point within the prince's guard and ripped his shirt-sleeve to the shoulder.
"Just to show ye I could do it," he chuckled. "Another time, I'll not be so merciful. Tell me, now, where have ye put the child?"
He lunged thrice with bewildering rapidity. The prince gave way a half dozen feet of ground under the fury of the attack.
"Tell me!" thundered O'Rourke, "before I do ye a hurt, man!"
But the answer he got was a stubborn silence.
From that point he forced the fighting to the end. It was even as he had suspected: he was in no way inferior to Georges. Rather was the contrary the case, for the prince, marvelous swordsman though he was, fought by the rigid rules of a single school—the French, while O'Rourke fought with a composite knowledge, skilled in as many methods as there were flags under which he had served.
Slowly, carefully, and relentlessly he advanced, obliging Monsieur le Prince to concede foot after foot of ground. And the combat, which had begun in the center of the floor—and the room was both wide and deep—by gradual degrees was carried down its center to the wall farthest from the door.
And with every skilful thrust, he dinned into the ears of the other an insistent query:
"Where have ye put the child, monsieur?"
Presently Georges found himself fairly pinned to the wall.
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