"Count Devereux," said the Abbe, sternly, while his dark face worked with suppressed passion, "this is trifling with me, and I warn you not to push my patience too far. I /will/ have that letter, or—" he ceased abruptly, and touched the hilt of his sword.
"Dare you threaten me?" I said, and the natural fierceness of my own disposition, deepened by vague and strong suspicions of some treachery designed against me, spoke in the tones of my voice.
"Dare I?" repeated Montreuil, sinking and sharpening his voice into a sort of inward screech. "Dare I!—ay, were your whole tribe arrayed against me. Give me the letter, or you will find me now and forever your most deadly foe; deadly—ay—deadly, deadly!" and he shook his clenched hand at me, with an expression of countenance so malignant and menacing that I drew back involuntarily, and laid my hand on my sword.
The action seemed to give Montreuil a signal for which he had hitherto waited. "Draw then," he said through his teeth, and unsheathed his rapier.
Though surprised at his determination, I was not backward in meeting it. Thrusting the letter in my bosom, I drew my sword in time to parry a rapid and fierce thrust. I had expected easily to master Montreuil, for I had some skill at my weapon: I was deceived; I found him far more adroit than myself in the art of offence; and perhaps it would have fared ill for the hero of this narrative had Montreuil deemed it wise to direct against my life all the science he possessed. But the moment our swords crossed, the constitutional coolness of the man, which rage or fear had for a brief time banished, returned at once, and he probably saw that it would be as dangerous to him to take away the life of his pupil as to forfeit the paper for which he fought. He, therefore, appeared to bend all his efforts towards disarming me. Whether or not he would have effected this it is hard to say, for my blood was up, and any neglect of my antagonist, in attaining an object very dangerous, when engaged with a skilful and quick swordsman, might have sent him to the place from which the prayers of his brethren have (we are bound to believe) released so many thousands of souls. But, meanwhile, the servants, who at first thought the clashing of swords was the wanton sport of some young gallants as yet new to the honour of wearing them, grew alarmed by the continuance of the sound, and flocked hurriedly to the place of contest. At their intrusion we mutually drew back. Recovering my presence of mind (it was a possession I very easily lost at that time), I saw the unseemliness of fighting with my preceptor, and a priest. I therefore burst, though awkwardly enough, into a laugh, and, affecting to treat the affair as a friendly trial of skill between the Abbe and myself, resheathed my sword and dismissed the intruders, who, evidently disbelieving my version of the story, retreated slowly, and exchanging looks. Montreuil, who had scarcely seconded my attempt to gloss over our /rencontre/, now approached me.
"Count," he said, with a collected and cool voice, "suffer me to request you to exchange three words with me in a spot less liable than this to interruption."
"Follow me then!" said I; and I led the way to a part of the grounds which lay remote and sequestered from intrusion. I then turned round, and perceived that the Abbe had left his sword behind. "How is this?" I said, pointing to his unarmed side, "have you not come hither to renew our engagement?"
"No!" answered Montreuil, "I repent me of my sudden haste, and I have resolved to deny myself all further possibility of unseemly warfare. That letter, young man, I still demand from you; I demanded it from your own sense of honour and of right: it was written by me; it was not intended for your eye; it contains secrets implicating the lives of others besides myself; now, read it if you will."
"You are right, Sir," said I, after a short pause; "there is the letter; never shall it be said of Morton Devereux that he hazarded his honour to secure his safety. But the tie between us is broken now and forever!"
So saying, I flung down the debated epistle, and strode away. I re-entered the great hall. I saw by one of the windows a sheet of paper; I picked it up, and perceived that it was the envelope in which the letter had been enclosed. It contained only these lines, addressed me in French:—