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the　originator；　the　genius。



And　he　was　especially　lucky　in　not　having　been　tied　down；　in　his

younger　years；　to　one　national　tradition　of　the　art。　　The

limitations　of　the　French；　the　Spanish；　the　Italian；　or　the

Austrian　schools　had　not　enslaved　him　in　youth　and　hampered　the

free　development　of　his　individuality。　　He　had　studied　them　all；

he　chose　from　them　all　their　superiorities；　their　excellences　he

blended　into　a　system　of　his　own。



It　might　be　called　the　Cleggett　System。



The　Frenchman　is　an　intellectual　swordsman；　the　basis　of　his　art

is　a　thorough　knowledge　of　its　mathematics。　　Upon　this　foundation

he　superimposes　a　structure　of　audacity。　　But　he　often　falls　into

one　error　or　another；　for　all　his　mental　brilliancy。　　He　may

become　rigidly　formal　in　his　practice；　or；　in　a　revolt　from　his

own　formalism；　be　seduced　into　a　display　of　showy；　sensational

tricks　that　are　all　very　well　in　the　studio　but　dangerous　to

their　practitioner　on　the　actual　dueling　ground。



The　Italian；　looser；　freer；　less　formal；　more　individual　in　his

style；　springing　from　a　line　of　forbears　who　have　preferred　the

thrust　to　the　cut；　the　point　to　the　edge；　for　centuries；　is　a

more　instinctive　and　less　intellectual　swordsman　than　the

Frenchman。　　It　is　in　his　blood；　he　uses　his　rapier　with　a　wild

and　angry　grace　that　is　feline。



The　Frenchman；　even　when　he　is　thoroughly　serious　in　his　desire

to　slay；　loves　a　duel　for　its　own　sake；　he　is　never　free　from　the

thought　of　the　picture　he　is　making；　the　art；　the　science；　the

practical　cleverness；　appeal　to　him　independently　of　the

bloodshed。



The　Italian　thinks　of　but　one　thing；　to　kill。　　He　will　take　a

severe　wound　to　give　a　fatal　one。　　The　French　are　the　best

fencers　in　the　world；　the　Italians　the　deadliest　duelists。



Cleggett；　as　has　been　said；　knew　all　the　schools　without　being

the　slave　of　any　of　them。



He　brought　his　sword　en　tierce；　Loge's　blade　met　his　with

strength　and　delicacy。　　The　strength　Cleggett　was　prepared　for。　

The　delicacy　surprised　him。　　But　he　was　too　much　the　master；　too

confident　of　his　own　powers；　to　trifle。　　He　delivered　one　of　his

favorite　thrusts；　it　was　a　stroke　of　his　own　invention；　three

times　out　of　five；　in　years　past；　it　had　carried　home　the　button

of　his　foil　to　his　opponent's　jacket。　　It　was　executed　with　the

directness　and　rapidity　of　a　flash　of　lightning。



But　Loge　parried　it　with　a　neatness　which　made　Cleggett　open　his

eyes；　replying　with　a　counter　so　shrewd　and　close；　and　of　such　a

darting　ferocity；　that　Cleggett；　although　he　met　it　faultlessly；

nevertheless　gave　back　a　step。



〃Ah；〃　cried　Loge；　showing　his　yellow　teeth　in　a　grin；　〃so　the

little　man　knows　that　thrust！〃



〃I　invented　it；〃　said　Cleggett。



With　the　word　he　pressed　forward　and；　making　a　swift　and　dazzling

feint；　followed　it　with　two　brilliant　thrusts；　either　of　which

would　have　meant　the　death　of　a　tyro。　　The　first　one　Loge

parried；　the　second　touched　him；　but　it　gave　him　nothing　more

than　a　scratch。　　Nevertheless；　the　smile　faded　from　Loge's　face；

he　gave　ground　in　his　turn　before　this　rapid　vigor　of　attack；　he

measured　Cleggett　with　a　new　glance。



〃You　are　touched；　I　think；〃　said　Cleggett；　meditating　a　fresh

combination；　〃and　I　am　glad　to　see　you　drop　that　ugly　pretense　at

a　grin。　　You　have　no　idea　how　the　sight　of　those　yellow　teeth　of

yours；　which　you　were　evidently　never　taught　to　brush　when　you

were　a　little　boy；　offends　a　person　of　any　refinement。〃



Loge's　answer　was　a　sudden　attempt　to　twist　his　blade　around

Cleggett's；　followed　by　a　direct　thrust；　as　quick　as　light；　which

grazed　Cleggett's　shoulder；　a　little　smudge　of　blood　appeared　on

his　undershirt。



〃Take　care；　take　care；　Cleggett！〃　warned　Wilton　Barnstable；　from

his　post　by　the　starboard　bulwark。



〃Make　yourself　easy；〃　said　Cleggett；　parrying　a　counter　en　carte；

〃I　am　only　getting　warm。〃



And　both　of　them；　stung　by　the　slight　scratches　which　they　had

received；　settled　to　the　business　with　an　intent　and　silent

deadliness　of　purpose。



To　all　appearances　Loge　had　an　immense　advantage　over　Cleggett；

his　legs　were　a　good　two　inches　longer；　so　were　his　arms。　　And　he

knew　how　to　make　these　peculiarities　count。　　He　fought　for　a

while　with　a　calm　and　steady　precision　that　repeatedly　baffled

the　calculated　impetuosity　of　Cleggett's　attack。　　But　the　air　of

bantering　certainty　with　which　he　had　begun　the　duel　had　left

him。　He　no　longer　wasted　his　breath　on　repartee；　no　doubt　he　was

surprised　to　find　Cleggett's　strength　so　nearly　equal　to　his　own；

as　Cleggett　had　been　astonished　to　find　in　Loge　so　much　finesse。　

But　with　a　second　slight　wound　Loge　began　to　give　ground。



With　Cleggett　a　bout　with　the　foils　had　always　been　a　duel。　　It

has　been　indicated；　we　believe；　that　he　was　of　a　romantic

disposition　and　much　given　to　daydreaming；　his　imagination　had

thus　made　every　set…to　in　the　fencing　room　a　veritable　mortal

combat　to　him。　　Therefore；　this　was　not　his　first　duel；　he　had

fought　hundreds　of　them。　　And　he　fought　always　on　a　settled　plan；

adapting　it；　of　course；　to　the　idiosyncrasies　of　his　adversary。　

It　was　his　custom　to　vary　the　system　of　his　attack　frequently　in

the　most　disconcerting　manner；　at　the　same　time　steadily

increasing　the　pace　at　which　he　fought。　　And　when　Loge　began　to

give　ground　and　breathe　a　little　harder；　Cleggett；　far　from

taking　advantage　of　his　opponent's　growing　distress　to　rest

himself；　as　a　less　distinguished　swordsman　might　have　done；

redoubled　the　vigor　of　his　assault。　　Cleggett　knew　that　sooner　or

later　a　winded　man　makes　a　fault。　　The　lungs　labor　and　fail　to

give　the　blood　all　the　oxygen　it　needs。　　The　circulation　suffers。

Nerves　and　muscles　are　no　longer　the　perfect　servants　of　the

brain；　for　a　fraction　of　a　second　the　sword　deviates　from　the

proper　line。



It　was　for　this　that　Cleggett　waited；　pressing　Loge　closer　and

closer；　alert　for　the　instant　when　Loge　would　fence　wide；　waxing

as　the　other　waned；　menacing　eyes；　throat；　and　heart　with　a　point

that　leaped　and　dazzled；　and　at　the　same　time　inclosing　himself

within　a　rampart　of　steel　which　Loge　found　it　more　and　more

hopeless　to　attempt　to　penetrate。　It　was　as　if　Cleggett's　blade

were　an　extension　of　his　will；　he　and　his　sword　were　not　two

things；　but　one。　　The　metal　in　his　hand　was　no　longer　merely　a

whip　of　steel；　it　was　a　thing　that　lived　with　his　own　life。　　His

pulse　beat　in　it。　　It　was　a　part　of　him。　　His　nervous　force

permeated　it　and　animated　it；　it　was　his　thought　turned　to

tempered　metal；　and　it　was　with　the　rapidity；　directness　and

subtlety　of　thought　that　his　sword　responded　to　his　mind。



〃Come！〃　said　Cleggett；　as　Loge　broke　ground；　scarcely　aware　that

he　spoke　aloud。　　〃At　this　rate　we　shall　be　at　home　thrusts　soon！〃



Loge　must　have　thought　so　too；　a　shade　passed　over　his　face；　his

upper　lip　lifted　haggardly。　　Perhaps　even　that　iron　nature　was

beginning　to　feel　at　last　something　of　the　dull　sickness　which　is

the　fear　of　death。　　He　retreated　continually；　and　Cleggett　was

smitten　with　the　fancy　to　force　him　backward　and　nail　him；　with　a

final　thrust；　to　the　stump　of　the　foremast；　which　had　been　broken

off　some　eight　feet　above　the　deck。



But　Loge；　gathering　his　power；　made　a　brilliant　and　desperate

rally；　twice　he　grazed　Cleggett；　whose　blade　was　too　closely

engaged；　and　then　suddenly　broke　ground　again。　　This　time

Cleggett　perceived　that　he　had　been　retreating　in　accordance　with

a　preconceived　program。　　He　was　certain　the　man　contemplated　a

trick；　perhaps　some　foul　stroke。



He　rushed　forward　with　a　terrible　thrust。　　Loge；　whose　last

maneuver　had　taken　him　within　a　yard　of　the　hatchway　opening　into

the　hold；　grasped　Cleggett's　blade　in　his　left　hand；　and　at　the

same　instant　flung　his　own　sword；　hilt　first；　full　in　Cleggett's

face。　　As　Cleggett；　struck　in　the　mouth　with　the　pommel；

staggered　back；　Loge　plunged　feet　foremost　into　the　hold。　　It　was

too　unexpected；　and　too　quickly　done；　for　a　shot　from　Barnstable

or　any　of　Cleggett's　men。



Cleggett；　with　the　blood　streaming　from　his　mouth；　recovered

himself　and　leaped　through　the　aperture　in　the　deck。　　He　landed

upon　his　feet　with　a　jar；　and；　shortening　his　sword　in　his　hand；

stared　about　him　in　the　gloom。



He　saw　no　one。



An　instant　later　Wilton　Barnstable　and　Cap'n　Abernethy　were

beside　him。



〃Gone！〃　said　Cleggett　simply。



Barnstable　drew　from　his　pocket　a　small　electric　lantern　and

swept　the　beam　in　a　circle　about　the　hold。　　Again　and　again　he

raked　the　darkness　until　the　finger　of　light　had　rested　upon

every　foot　of　the　interior。



But　Loge　had　vanished　as　completely　as　a　snowflake　that　falls

into　a　tub　of　water。





CHAPTER　XXV



THE　SECRET　OF　THE　VESSEL'S　HOLD



〃Idiot　that　I　am；〃　cried　Cleggett；　〃not　to　have　covered　that

hole！〃　　His　chagrin　was　touching　to　behold。



〃There；　there