A GOOD SWORD-STROKE;

OR, HOW COLONEL DE MALET MET HIS MATCH.

BY DAVID KER.

There was high frolic going on in a small town of Southern France one fine summer morning toward the end of the last century. The great local fair, which only came once in six months, was in full swing, and the queer little market-place of the town, with its old-fashioned fountain in the middle, and its tall dark houses, all round, was crowded to overflowing. Here was a juggler eating fire, or pulling ribbons out of his mouth by the yard, amid a ring of wondering peasants. There an acrobat was turning head over heels, and then walking on his hands with his feet up in the air. A little farther on a show of dancing dogs had gathered a large crowd; and close by a sly-looking fellow in a striped frock, leaning over the front of a wagon, was recommending a certain cure for toothache, which, however, judging from the wry faces of those who ventured to try it, must have been almost as bad as the complaint itself.

The chief attraction of the fair, however, seemed to be a tall, gaunt man, with an unmistakably Italian face, who was standing on a low platform beside the fountain. He had been exhibiting some wonderful feats of swordsmanship, such as throwing an apple into the air and cutting it in two as it fell, tossing up his sword and catching it by the hilt, striking an egg with it so lightly as not even to break the shell, and others equally marvellous. At length, having collected a great throng around him, he stepped forward, and challenged any one present to try a sword bout with him, on the condition that whichever was first disarmed should forfeit to the other half a livre (ten cents).

Several troopers who were swaggering about the market-place, for there was a cavalry regiment quartered in the town, came up one after another to try their hand upon him. But to the great delight of the crowd they all got the worst of it; and one might have guessed from the eagerness with which the poor Italian snatched up the money, as well as from his pale face and hollow cheeks, that he did not often earn so much in one day.

Suddenly the crowd parted to right and left as a handsome young man in a fine gold-laced coat and plumed hat, with a silver-hilted sword by his side, forced his way through the press, and confronted the successful swordsman.

"You handle your blade so well, my friend," cried he, "that I should like to try a bout with you myself, for I'm thought to be something of a swordsman. But before we begin, take these two livres and get yourself some food at the French Lily yonder, for you look tired and hungry, and it's no fair match between a fasting man and a full one."

"Now may Heaven bless you, my lord, whoever you may be!" said the man, fervently; "for you're the first who has given me a kindly word this many a day. I can hardly expect to be a match for you, but if you will be pleased to wait but ten minutes, I'll gladly do my best."

The fencer was as good as his word, and the moment he was seen to remount the platform the lookers-on crowded eagerly around it, expecting a well-fought bout; for they had all seen what he could do, and they now recognized his new opponent as the young Marquis de Malet, who had the name of being the best swordsman in the whole district.

Their expectations were not disappointed. For the first minute or so the watching eyes around could hardly follow the swords, which flickered to and fro like flashes of lightning, feinting, warding, striking, parrying, till they seemed to be everywhere at once. De Malet at first pressed his man vigorously, but finding him more skillful than he had expected, he began to fight more cautiously, and to aim at tiring him out.

This artful plan seemed likely to succeed, for the Italian at length lowered his weapon for a moment, as if his hand was growing wearied. But as De Malet made a rapid stroke at him, the other suddenly changed the sword from his right to his left hand, and catching the Marquis's blade in reverse, sent it flying among the crowd below.

"Well done!" cried the young man, admiringly. "I thought I knew most tricks of fence, but I never saw one like that before."

"I could teach it to your lordship in a week," said the Italian. "For a man of your skill nothing is needed but practice."

"Say you so?" cried De Malet. "Then the sooner we begin, the better. Come home with me, and stay till you've taught me all you know. One doesn't meet a man like you every day."

And so for a month to come Antonio Spalatro was the guest of Henri de Malet; and the young Marquis learned to perform the feat which had excited his wonder quite as dexterously as the Italian himself.

White lay the snow upon the fields outside the blazing city of Moscow. The Russians had fired their own capital. The veteran bands of Napoleon were fleeing from fire to perish amid ice and snow.

"Down with the French dog!"

"Cut him to pieces!"

"Send a bullet through him!"

A dozen arms were raised at once against the solitary man, who, with his back against a wall, and one foot on the body of his horse, sternly confronted them. Henri de Malet (now Colonel De Malet, of the French Cuirassiers) was still the same dashing fellow as ever, though twenty-three years had passed since he took his first lesson in fencing from Spalatro, the Italian, of whom he had never heard a word all this while. But if Spalatro was gone, his teaching was not, and De Malet's sword seemed to be everywhere at once, keeping the swarming Russians at bay, as it had done many a time already during the terrible retreat which was now approaching its end.

"Leave him to me," cried a deep voice from behind; "he's a man worth fighting, this fellow!"

"Ay, leave him to the Colonel," chorussed the Russians. "He'll soon settle his fine fencing tricks."

A tall dark man, whose close-cropped black hair was just beginning to turn gray, stepped forward, and crossed swords with De Malet, who, feeling at once that he had met his match, stood warily on the defensive. The Russian grenadiers watched eagerly as the swords flashed and fell and rose again, while the combatants, breathing hard, and setting their teeth, struck, parried, advanced, and retreated by turns. At length De Malet, finding himself hard pressed, tried the blow taught him by Spalatro; but the stranger met it with a whirling back stroke that whisked the sword clean out of his hand. Instead of cutting him down, however, the Russian seized him by the hand with a cry of joy.

"There's but one man in the French army who knows that stroke," cried he, "and I'm glad to see you remember so well what I taught you. Now at last Spalatro the officer can repay the kindness shown to Spalatro the vagabond. When I came over here with the Russian Prince to whom you so kindly recommended me, they soon found out that I could handle soldiers as well as swords, and gave me a commission in the army, and here I am, Colonel Spalatro, with the Cross of St. George, and a big estate in Central Russia. Now if you fall into the hands of our soldiers you'll be killed to a certainty, so you'd better come with me to head-quarters, where I'll report you as my prisoner. You will be safe under my charge until there's a chance of sending you home, and then you are welcome to go as soon as you please."

And Colonel Spalatro was as good as his word.