The ghosts of the boy, Gaston Lafitte, of the sick man Raoul de Bassempierre, and of the indifferent swordsman, Raymond de Neville who had been cheated at cards, came back, and they helped Willet wield his weapon.

His figure broadened and grew.

His blade was no longer of steel, it was a strip of lightning that played around the body and face of the dazzled bravo.

It was verily true that the hands of four men grasped the hilt, the ghosts of the three whom he had murdered long ago, and Willet who stood there in the flesh before him.
A reluctant buzz of admiration ran through the crowd.

Many of them had come from Paris, but they had never seen such swordsmanship before.
Whoever the hunter might be they saw that he was the master swordsman of them all.