47. XLVII.
PRELIMINARIES.
ADUEL!” said Captain Wagner, when upon
the following morning Falconbridge related to
him the events of the preceding night—“a duel!
and about that woman! By the snout of the
old he-dragon! Falconbridge, both you and Fairfax are a
bigger pair of lunatics than I took you for.”
“So let it be,” said Falconbridge, pale and collected as before,
“and I do not conceal from you—I cannot—that Miss
Argal is connected with the matter.”
“Connected with it! Falconbridge, don't treat me like an
idiot,” said the Captain, gloomily, “I am sane in mind, and
see somewhat further than my nose.”
The young man made no reply.
“I knew it was coming in some form or other—this misery,
and wretchedness and blood!” continued the Captain
in a sombre tone, “I smelt it in the air—this bloody odor—
or the devil take it!”
“You were right in your warning,” muttered the young
man, with unutterable despair in his altered voice! “Would
that I had taken your advice.”
“About the nature of panthers, ch?” said Wagner, as
grimly as before; “well, I wish you had.”
“It would have been well for me.”
“But you did not believe me,” said the Captain, frowning
painfully. “And now see, Falconbridge, how things have
turned out. You doubted the miserable old bear who
growled at the pretty, variegated animal, with her shining
coat, her brilliant eyes, her caresses, and smiles, and bright
glances! You were almost ready to strike your sword hilt
into the mouth that discoursed on the subject. And now,
what has happened? You have felt the sharp claws which
I told you of! You have rolled into the mortal hug! The
long, glittering teeth which mangled Charles Austin and
left him in a pool of blood are gnawing you—you are her
prey!”
A groan answered the words. It was irrepressible.
“Yes, yes,” murmured the young man with cruel agony,
“yes, yes, that's all true—I am lost!”
“Not that either! no, you're not, by the snout of the
dragon!” returned the soldier; “things are not that bad at
least. Don't cry for spilt milk—look the thing in the face.
Let me speak like a doctor, comrade, and probe your wound,
though you shudder and cry out. I mean well—do you love
that woman still?”
“I know not,” was the low reply.
“Then you do love her still. And now what do you design?”
“Nothing.”
“That means nothing. Are you going to return to her,
Falconbridge? Speak, and say if you are going back to
crouch at her feet, to be whipped and spit on, and spurned
like a dog! Are you going to cry and bewail, and beg her
to love you, and make yourself her slave, her menial! Tell
me this. Speak frankly, Falconbridge—are you going to
return? If so, though I love you as I would love my own
boy comrade, I'll wash my hands clear of the business.”
“Rest easy,” was the reply, in the same low voice, “I shall
never see her again—except to get from her the ring which
was my mother's.”
A contraction of the pale brow and quivering lip betrayed
the agony of the speaker, and he was silent. Then he added,
in a voice which was almost inaudible,
“My mother gave me that ring on her death-bed, with
her blessing. She cried as she placed it on my finger, and I
never removed it until the morning when—I was mad, companion!
Don't mind me—you see—I am thinking—of my
mother.”
He was silent again. The words had forced their way by
violence as it were, through the clenched teeth, and the pale
lips. The eyes of the young man were dry and fixed—there
were no tears in them.
“Falconbridge,” said Captain Wagner, with frowning
brows, “stop that talk, or you'll make me cry like a baby!
To think of all this—of the way you have been tricked—of
your honesty and true manliness—by the horns of the devil!
it makes me flush—my nerves twitch! Would this woman
were a man!”
Indeed a flash of something like fiery rage darted from the
eyes of the soldier, and his hand stole down to the hilt of
his weapon. Then, as he looked into the countenance of his
companion, this flash disappeared; he bent down murmuring:
and the old wistful, almost tender expression returned.
“Falconbridge,” he said, “my miserable old heart is bleeding
for you, as I think of what may happen in the next
twenty-four hours. Whatever may be the result of that
combat you announce as coming, it must be horrible.”
“So let it be.”
“There's misery and death in the matter—the blood of
one or both of you.”
“Doubtless,” was the cold reply of the young man, who
had completely mastered his emotion, and was calm again.
“Fairfax is an admirable swordsman; I have played with
him; and you, do you use the short-sword?”
“Indifferent well.”
“That is well—at least there will be a fair and aboveboard
fight—no mequal combat. But I know not whether
it is not unfortunate after all—if I do, may I be scalped!”
“What do you mean, Captain?” said Falconbridge.
I mean plainly this—that in case you were ignorant of
the use of the small-sword, or completely out of practice, the
affair could not take place—it might easily be arranged—as
I hope it will be yet. Without a swordsman for his opponent,
the Earl would retire—and you would necessarily do
likewise.”
“Never! There would remain the pistol!” was the quick
reply, between the close-set teeth.
“A villainous weapon! No! If there's a combat it shall
be with short-swords. That is fair and honorable—and
now what are you going to do, Falconbridge?”
“I shall set out at once to find some gentleman of the
neighborhood, who'll act as my second.”
“Hum! then you know some?”
“One or two very slightly, but they cannot refuse me.”
“Hum! hum!” repeated the Captain, still gloomy and
thoughtful, but gazing at his companion from time to time
with the strange, wistful glance which we have noticed, “and
is there no possible way of accommodating this difference?”
“None on earth. If there is no regular duel, there will
be a combat wherever we meet—the blood of myself or Lord
Fairfax must flow!”
“Misery! misery!” muttered the soldier; “a wretched business
in everyway. And pray, why don't you ask me to
second you, Falconbridge?”
“Because,” said the young man, rewarding the speaker
with one of his proud glances, full of thanks and feeling,
“because you live with Lord Fairfax, and are naturally his
second in the matter.”
“Nothing of the sort,” returned Wagner, coolly; “you're
my friend as much as Fairfax, and by the dragon's snout,
I'll not have you go looking for a friend, when his lordship
can select one out of a hundred. Wait here, companion.
I'll return in an hour. Do you promise?”
“You say `an hour?' ”
“Yes.”
“I will wait so long, Captain—but sacrifice nothing for
me—have no jar with his lordship. I am not worthy of
such friendship, or of such a sacrifice of feeling. I soon
pass. See the sun there, comrade! He is mounting the
sky—well, it is probable that I'll not see his setting. So be
it. I am tired of my life, and death cannot come too quickly.
In an hour!”
And with these gloomy words, which affected the rough
Borderer strangely, the young man entered the building, and
retired to his chamber.
