finished play, no later than this day week. Miss Holgar, may I voice my special appreciation? Mr. Connatt, your confessed fear of your own inadequacy is proven groundless. Bravo, Miss Vining—and you, Davidson." His final tag of praise to his subordinate seemed almost grudging. "Now for the second act of the thing. No verse this time, my friends. Finish the rehearsal as well as you have begun."
"Wait," I said. "How about properties? I simulated the dub-stroke in the first act, but this time I need a sword. For the sake of feeling the action better"
"Yes, of course," granted Varduk. "There's one in the corner dressing-room." He pointed. "Go fetch it, Davidson."
Davidson complied. The sword was a cross-hilt affair, old but keen and bright.
"This isn't a prop at all," I half objected. "It's the real thing. Won't it be dangerous?"
"Oh, I think we can risk it," Varduk replied carelessly. "Let's get on with the rehearsal. A hundred years later, in the same garden. Swithin and Mary, descendants of Aubrey and Malvina, on stage."
We continued. The opening, again with Sigrid and myself a-wooing, was lively and even brilliant. Martha Vining, in her rôle of the centenarian Bridget, skilfully cracked her voice and infused a witch-like quality into her telling of the Aubrey-Ruthven tale. Again the entrance of Ruthven, his suavity and apparent friendliness, his manner changing as he is revealed as the resurrected fiend of another age; finally the clash with me, as Swithin.
I spoke my line—"My ancestor killed you once, Ruthven. I can do the same today." Then I poked at him with the sword.
Varduk smiled and interjected, "Rather a languid thrust, that, Mr. Connatt. Do you think it will seem serious from the viewpoint of our audience?"
"I'm sorry," I said. "I was afraid I might hurt you."
"Fear nothing, Mr. Connatt. Take the speech and the swordplay again."
I did so, but he laughed almost in scorn. "You still put no life into the thrust." He spread his hands, as if to offer himself as a target. "Once more. Don't be an old woman."
Losing a bit of my temper, I made a genuine lunge. My right foot glided forward and my weight shifted to follow my point. But in mid-motion I knew myself for a danger-dealing fool, tried to recover, failed, and slipped.
I almost fell at full length—would have fallen had Varduk not been standing in my way. My sword-point, completely out of control, drove at the center of his breast—I felt it tear through cloth, through flesh
A moment later his slender hands had caught my floundering body and pushed it back upon its feet. My sword, wedged in something, snatched its hilt from my hand. Sick and horrified, I saw it protruding from the midst of Varduk's body. Behind me I heard the choked squeal of Martha Vining, and an oath from Jake Switz. I swayed, my vision seemed to swim in smoky liquid, and I suppose I was well on the way to an unmasculine swoon. But a light chuckle, in Varduk's familiar manner, saved me from collapsing.
"That is exactly the way to do it, Mr. Connatt," he said in a tone of well-bred applause.
He drew the steel free—I think that he had to wrench rather hard—and then stepped forward to extend the hilt.
"There's blood on it," I mumbled sickly.
