"Exactly," said my father. "The paper. If the paper were in my pocket,
you, my son, would now be in the surgeon's hands. The paper, however, is
upstairs in my volume of Rabelais. And now--"

His wrist suddenly stiffened. He made a feint at my throat, and in the
same motion lowered his guard. As I came on parade, my sword was wrenched
from my grasp. At the same time I stepped past his point, and seized him
around the waist.

"You heard, Mademoiselle," I cried. "The door!" and we fell together.

My father uttered something which seemed very near a curse, and clutched
at my throat. I loosened my grasp to fend away his hand, and he broke
away from my other arm, and sprang to his feet. Just as he did so there
was a blow, a splintering of wood. The door was carried off its hinges,
and Brutus leapt beside him. The floor had not been clean. My father
brushed regretfully at the smudges on his cambric shirt.

"My coat, if you please, Mademoiselle," he said. "I see you have it in
your hands. Gad, my son! It was a nearer thing than I expected. On my
word, I did not know that Brutus was back."

"He is like you, captain," said Mademoiselle, handing the coat to him.
"You are both stubborn."

For some reason I could not fathom, her good nature had returned. It was
relief, perhaps, that made her smile at us.

"It is a family trait," returned my father.