CHAPTER IX

'Ah! why should love, like men in drinking songs,
Spice his fair banquet with the dust of earth?'

Lord St. Maurice walked straight into his room without perceiving that it was already occupied. He flung his hat into a corner, and himself into an easy-chair, with an exclamation which was decidedly unparliamentary.

"D—n!" he muttered.

"That's a lively greeting," remarked a voice from the other end of the room.

He looked quickly up. A tall figure loomed out of the shadows of the apartment, and presently resolved itself into the figure of a man with his hands in his pockets, and a huge meerschaum pipe in his mouth.

"Briscoe, by Jove! How long have you been here?"

"About two hours. I've been resting. Anything wrong downstairs? Thought I heard a row."

"Strike a light, there's a good fellow, and I'll tell you."

The new-comer moved to the window, and pulled aside the curtain.

"Moon's good enough," he remarked. "I hate those sickly candles. Great Scott! what's the matter with you? You look as black as thunder."

Lord St. Maurice told him the whole story. Martin Briscoe listened without remark until he had finished. Then he pushed the tobacco firmly down into the bowl of his pipe and re-lit it, smoking for a few minutes in silence.

"I tell you what, Maurice," he said at length, "of all the blood-thirsty little devils that ever were hatched, that Marioni takes the cake. Why, I'm going to fight him myself to-morrow morning."

"What!" cried St. Maurice, starting up in his chair.

"Fact, I assure you. Margharita told me that he was going to be troublesome, but I'd no idea that he was such a little spitfire. I landed two hours ago, and came straight here. I'd scarcely had a tub, and made myself decent, when in the little beggar walks, and kicks up no end of a row. I listened for a bit, and then told him to go to hell. In five minutes he'd got the whole thing arranged, seconds and all. To-morrow morning, at 6.30, on the sands, 'll see me a dead man, if he can use his tools as well as he can talk, little beast."

"Briscoe, this is a horrible mess," Lord St. Maurice declared emphatically. "I don't know what you think of duels; I hate them."

"It isn't duels I hate, it's the being spitted," Briscoe answered gloomily. "I can fence a bit, but it's always been with foils. I'm not used to swords, and I expect that fellow is a regular 'don' at it. There's a sort of corpse-like look about him, anyway. Got any 'baccy, St. Maurice? Mine's so beastly dry."

"Help yourself, old fellow. Who the devil's that?"

There was a knock at the door, and one of the servants of the hotel appeared. With some difficulty, for he was a native, and spoke French execrably, he explained that there were some gentlemen below who desired to speak with Lord St. Maurice.

The two men exchanged glances.

"My time has come, you see," Lord St Maurice remarked grimly. "Wait for me."

In the deserted salle à manger the French officer and one of the Palermitan gentlemen were talking together. The latter approached Lord St. Maurice and drew him on one side.

"I do not know how you may be situated here for friends, Lord St. Maurice," he said, "but I felt that you would only consider it courteous of me to offer my services to you in case you are without a second in this affair. My father wrote to me from Rome of your visit here, and I went to your yacht to call this afternoon. My name is Pruccio—Signor Adriano Pruccio."

Lord Maurice bowed.

"I remember your father quite well," he said, "and I am glad to commence our acquaintance by accepting the favor you offer. Will you be so good as to make all the necessary arrangements with the Count Marioni's second, and let me know the result."

The Palermitan withdrew into a corner of the room with the Frenchman, and a few minutes' whispered conversation took place between them. Then he rejoined Lord St. Maurice, who was standing at the window.

"I am sorry to say that Count Marioni, who is the insulted person in this affair, chooses swords."

Lord St. Maurice nodded.

"When, and where?"

"At a place below the cliffs to which I shall conduct you at six o'clock to-morrow morning."

"At six o'clock! But he has another affair on at half-past."

"So I understand," the Palermitan answered, "I pointed out that we should prefer an interval of at least a day; but Monsieur le Capitaine there explains that the Count de Marioni, having dispensed with his incognito, is hourly in danger of arrest on account of some political trouble, and is therefore anxious to have both affairs settled. I have agreed, therefore, with your permission, to waive all etiquette in the matter."

"I don't know that it makes any difference to me," Lord St. Maurice answered. "To-night, by moonlight, would have suited me best."

Signor Pruccio laughed.

"You are in a great hurry, Lord St. Maurice. May I ask whether you are proficient with your weapon?"

"I never fenced since I was at school," he answered coolly. "I suppose Marioni is dangerous?"

The Palermitan looked very grave. He began to see that it would be more like a murder than a duel.

"Count Marioni is one of the finest swordsmen in Italy," he answered. "Perhaps, if I were to explain that you are not accustomed to the rapier——"

"Pray don't," Lord St. Maurice interrupted. "He'd be just as likely to shoot me."

"That is true," Signor Pruccio assented. "I have seen him do wonderful things with the pistol. If you can spare an hour or two, Signor, I should be happy to give you a little advice as to the management of your weapon. There is a large room at the top of my house where we fence."

Lord St. Maurice shook his head.

"Thank you, I'll take my chance," he answered.

"At five o'clock, Signor. Will you not come to my house for the night?"

"I'm much obliged, but I must write some letters. Good-night, Signor."

"Good-night, Signor. Sleep well!"

The golden light died out of the waning moon, and afar off in the east a long line of red clouds seemed to rise out of the sea. The air was still and calm and breathless. Even the sea seemed hushed as the yellow stars faded from the sky. Behind that bank of glowing clouds was the promise of the richer and fuller day. Amber was becoming golden, and pink purple, till through a very rainbow of coloring the sun's first rays shot across the chilled waters.

Lord St. Maurice had fallen asleep, with his head resting upon his arms, close to the open window. By his side, with the ink scarcely dry upon either, were his will, and his farewell letter to Adrienne. No one but himself would ever know the agony, the hopeless grief, which had rent his heart, as word after word, sentence after sentence of passionate leave-taking had found their way on to those closely-written sheets of paper. But it was over now—over and done with. When some faint sound from below, or a breath of the morning breeze from the bosom of the sea awoke him, and he commenced making a few preparations for the start, he was surprised to find how calm he was. The passion of his grief had spent itself. He thought of those hours before sleep had fallen upon him with horror, but they seemed to him very far away. He was face to face with death, but he felt only that he was about to make a journey into an undiscovered land. His imagination was dulled. He remembered only that he was going out to meet death, and it behoved him to meet it as an honorable English gentleman.

He plunged his head into a basin of cold water and made a careful toilette, not forgetting even the button-hole which Adrienne had fetched for him with her own fingers on the evening before. Then he quietly left the hotel, and walked slowly up and down the Marina until Signor Pruccio arrived.