113. CXIII.
THE DEFIANCE.
I HAD scarcely ridden half a mile when I heard a voice behind
me, and, looking back, descried Captain Farley coming on at a
gallop.
He soon caught up with me, his eyes beaming, his white teeth
shining under his delicate mustache, his dark plume floating
in the breeze of the April evening.
“I couldn't bear the idea of your making your little scout
alone,” he said, laughing, in his subdued way, “and, if I don't intrude,
I will go with you.”
“Delighted to have you, Farley,” was my reply. “I hate to
ride all day with no company but my own thoughts.”
“Well, then I'll go with you, and we will try and scare up
some game beyond the river.”
I laughed, and said:
“I have two objections to that.”
“What are they?” he asked with a smile.
“In the first place, I shall be glad if they don't scare up me;
and, secondly, my present scout is of the most peaceful character.
To-day, I have no sort of enmity toward anybody, not even
Yankees.”
Farley laughed the low laugh of the scout.
“I understand!” he said; “but perhaps we will come across
the bluebirds nevertheless, and bag some.”
With these words he rode on by my side, a gallant figure in
his dark surtout, his brace of pistols, his drooping hat with its
black feather.
We conversed of a hundred things, which do not concern
this narrative, and I need not record the conversation. It was
our determination to cross the river that night opposite the little
village of Orleans; but, unfortunately, Farley's horse cast a shoe
and began to limp so badly that it was absolutely necessary to
seek for a blacksmith.
While we were looking out for some friendly citizen to direct
us, a light glimmered in front, on the banks of the river—for
the night had descended—and suddenly we came upon a cavalry
camp, and were halted by a picket.
“Whose regiment?” I asked.
“Colonel Mordaunt's,” was the reply.
“Good. Where are the Colonel's quarters?”
We were directed to a tent in a thicket near; and, stretched
upon his cloak beside a camp-fire, we found Mordaunt. Opposite
lay Achmed, the Moor, wrapped from head to foot, and
sound asleep.
Mordaunt greeted us with military hospitality, and he and
Farley were evidently old friends. The result of a consultation
on the subject of horse-shoes was rather discouraging, as there
was no shop near, and we finally accepted Mordaunt's invitation
to spend the night. One of his men, he said, should have the
lame horse ready shod by daylight.
For an hour we talked upon indifferent subjects. Then
declaring that he was sleepy, Farley wrapped himself in his
blankets, lay down by the fire, and his long breathing soon indicated
that he was asleep.
Mordaunt did not seem inclined to follow his example. He
remained stretched upon his cloak, his head resting on his hand
and gazed thoughtfully into the fire.
As he thus lay at full length before me, his face and form lit
up by the ruddy flame, he was the picture of a cavalry-man.
His athletic figure, hardened by the active life of the outpost,
was all muscle; his swarthy cheek bore the traces of sun and
wind and storm; his dark eyes had that proud and penetrating
expression which may be read in those of the mountain eagle.
I looked with a species of curious interest upon this powerful
physique, this broad brow, and firm lip fringed with its raven
mustache; it was strength in repose, there before me in the
person of this silent man, who had found in the shock of battle
apparently the solace for that grievous wound inflicted upon his
heart.
But, as I looked more attentively at my silent companion, I
thought I could discern the traces of unwonted emotion—suppressed
by that iron resolution of his, but not so completely as
to be wholly undiscoverable upon his swarthy features. There
was a strange light in the dark, proud eye—a slight color on
the cheek, which evidently proceeded from some hidden emotion.
Mordaunt was plainly thinking of something which absorbed him
strangely.
This revery at last became so profound that he seemed to lose
the consciousness even of my presence—and, muttering some
words which I did not hear, he drew from his bosom a paper,
small and delicate, such as women write upon, and read it attentively.
As he did so, a deep flush came to his bronze face—his
eyes flashed—then, as he raised his head, his glance met mine,
fixed curiously upon him, and he suddenly seemed to realize my
presence. The paper was coolly replaced in his bosom; he drew
a long breath; the color faded from his cheek—he was bronze
again.
At the same moment the sound of hoofs was heard on the
bank of the river, and the quick “Halt!” of the picket.
“Friends!” was the reply; and, as Mordaunt rose, the sounds
drew nearer, and then ceased.
The rattle of a sabre indicated that some one was dismounting;
and at the next moment the figure of Harry Saltoun appeared
in the circle of fire-light.
The young man advanced with measured tread, saluted with
cold ceremony, and said in tones of freezing formality:
“I have come to make my report, sir.”
“Make it, sir,” was Mordaunt's reply in a voice as cold and
formal as that of the young Lieutenant.
The latter then proceeded, in the same voice of stiff official
coldness, to make his report.
As I listened, I more than once asked myself if this rigid
military automaton with the repelling manner, the measured and
gloomy accents, the pale face and set lips which seemed at times
to suppress with difficulty the temptation to break into a sneer—
I asked myself if this could possibly be the gay and joyous
Harry Saltoun, so full of life and buoyancy and laughter—this
statue, which growled in speaking, and menaced him whom it
addressed, with those lowering eyes!
But Mordaunt exhibited no evidence of surprise, and listened
in grave silence.
When the report was finished, he said simply:
“It is well, sir. Return with your company to the regiment,
and send your prisoners under guard to corps head-quarters.”
The young Lieutenant made a stiff salute, but did not move.
“I believe you heard my order,” added Mordaunt in a freezing
tone.
“I did, sir,” was the cold reply, “and it will be promptly
obeyed. I only solicit, before leaving Colonel Mordaunt, his
reply to a single question.”
“Ask it,” returned Mordaunt.
“When will he accord to me that meeting which he has
promised me?”
The words were uttered without a change in the accents of
the young man—it is impossible to imagine any thing more cold
and proud than his address.
To my extreme astonishment, Mordaunt did not give way to
the least displeasure at this singular demand. I expected an
outburst, but none came.
“In four days from this time,” he said, “I will give you an
answer to that question. Be content—what is deferred is not
lost. You have my word, sir.”
The young man saluted—retired without uttering a word—
and I was again left alone with Mordaunt.
“This scene appears rather extraordinary to you, Surry,
beyond any doubt,” Mordaunt now said to me, with perfect
coolness; “but I am a perfect Quixote in some matters, my dear
friend, and I am acting like the Knight of La Mancha on the
present occasion. One of my curious fancies is, that a gentleman
has no right to refuse satisfaction to his opponent because that
opponent is beneath him in rank. On such occasions the question
of rank disappears—it is gentleman against gentleman, and
this boy is such.”
“And you are going to fight Harry Saltoun!” I exclaimed.
“Exactly,” was the cool reply of Mordaunt.
“On what quarrel, in the name of heaven!”
“Really, I can't tell you, Surry,” was the careless answer, “I
can only inform you how it came about. Do you care to listen?
—it will not detain you ten minutes.”
“Let me hear all about it, Mordaunt.”
“Well, our young friend here, Lieutenant Saltoun, has some
grievance against me which he obstinately refuses to divulge. I
observed the traces of bitter hostility in his manner toward me,
for the first time, a few days since. In making a report to me,
his bearing was so offensive that I called his attention to it, and
he replied in a manner which made it necessary to arrest him.
In twenty-four hours I sent an order for his release, believing
that some momentary fit of passion had betrayed him into this
grave military offence—but no sooner had he been relieved from
arrest than he came to me and said, with the eyes of a wild
animal about to spring: `You are the colonel of this regiment,
and I am a subordinate—but you are a gentleman also, and I am
your equal. If you choose to arrest and punish me for insubordination,
do so! If you hold yourself accountable to me, in
spite of the stars upon your collar, meet me and give me the
satisfaction which one gentleman owes another whom he has
outraged.' Those were the exact words, Surry,” continued
Mordaunt coolly, “and you can understand that they touched
my weak point—probed it to the quick. At once I resolved to
meet this defiance as man to man—no one shall insult me with
impunity—but, first, it seemed to me only reasonable that I
should ascertain the grounds of this fancied outrage. Can you
conceive that my young Orlando Furioso positively refused to
tell me?”
“And you are going to engage in a mortal encounter upon
grounds as irrational as a hot-blooded young man's simple invitation!”
I exclaimed.
A grim smile came to Mordaunt's face.
“You have not heard all,” he said. “What I have told you is
only the preface.”
“Go on—what more?”
“The most entertaining part is to come. When my young
thunderbolt informs me that the ground of his dissatisfaction
with me must remain undivulged, I reply, `That is somewhat extraordinary,
Lieutenant Saltoun: you are determined to cut my
throat, and yet you refuse to afford me the poor satisfaction of
knowing why you are resolved to perform that operation.'
Whereupon comes his reply, as hot as fire, and in these words:
`Do you call yourself a gentleman?' `I have been considered
such,' I answer, with the tiger in me suddenly becoming developed.
`I ask,' he said, coolly, yes, with a voice as steady as a
rock, Surry, `I ask, because people say that there is something
in your history which won't bear investigation—a mystery which
may involve an infamy!' Those were his very words, my dear
Surry,” said Mordaunt, with a flash of the eye which boded no
good; “and, not content with this, he uttered the name of a
woman whom I formerly knew! Well, when Lieutenant Saltoun
did me the honor to thus allude to my private history—to
suggest that positive infamy might lie perdu beneath the mystery
of my past life, and to pronounce a name which recalls to
me only bitter recollections—the words which he uttered accomplished
his object as effectually as a blow could have done it!
I went up to him where he was standing—we were quite alone—
and said to him, `Lieutenant Saltoun, you have formed a tolerably
just estimate of your man, and know how to strike. You shall
answer for those words with your life. But don't arouse me further
now. Go and cool off, sir, and then come back, and we will
arrange the terms of the meeting you desire.' He bowed when
I said that, and went away—and the meeting to-night is the first
which has since taken place between us.”
I could find no words of comment upon this most unfortunate
affair; and, after a moment's silence, Mordaunt added:
“I would have arranged the whole affair to-night—it would
require a few moments only—but I have just received a letter
which makes my absence for about four days absolutely necessary.
I have thus been obliged to defer this meeting with our
fiery friend—on my return he shall have his satisfaction.”
