“Well, at once, then. So be it; but not to-night.”
“No, not to-night. It is already morning.”
“To-morrow, then, if you desire me to do so.”
“I do desire it. Oh, mercy on me, I am overwhelmed with sorrow and sadness. I repent the past, and tremble for the future.”
“I will act in accordance with your expressed wishes. Do not give way to needless fear. Come, sweetest, cheer up—be not so downcast. It is a melancholy ending, but, as I before observed, it was inevitable.”
He strove as best he could to pacify the wretched Theresa, whose only thoughts were for his safety. He promised to fly on the following day.
They remained, exchanging words of love and vows of constancy, till the first few hours of the morning had passed away.
When Lord Ethalwood sought his own couch it was with an aching head and a heavy heart that he sought repose. His slumbers were disturbed by hideous dreams, and he arose hot, feverish, and excited.
Madame Trieste had returned, and was in the breakfast parlour when he presented himself. She tossed up her hands and heaved a deep sigh as her eyes lighted on him.
She told him she knew all—knew of the duel and the death of Gerome Chanet, but she did not upbraid him, or express any dissatisfaction at the line of conduct he had chosen to pursue. On the contrary, she said that she knew it had been forced upon him, and that he had no other alternative than to accept the challenge.