“For the last time, be merciful, Duke.”
“Well, so I will.”
He spoke looking up at me, with his head still bent sideways, and, in that position, felt in one of his pockets.
“If the gentleman will condescend to take this,” he said, standing suddenly erect and holding out a little white paper packet in his hand, “I will go and welcome. But I must see him swallow it first.”
“Poison?”
“Not at all. A love potion—nothing more.”
Duke stole toward me insidiously, holding out the paper. The moment he was within reach I struck it out of his hand. While my arm was yet in the air, he came with a rush at me—caught his foot in a projecting root—staggered and fell with a sliding thump upon the grass.
“Keep behind!” I shouted to Jason, who was uttering incoherent cries and running to and fro like a thing smitten with a sunstroke. He stopped at sound of my voice; then came and clung to me, feeling me to be his last hope.
For a moment Duke lay as if stunned; then slowly gathered himself together and rose to his feet—rose only to collapse again, with a snarling curse of agony. He glowered up at us, moaning and muttering, and nursing his injured limb; for so it seemed that, in falling, he had cruelly twisted and sprained one of his ankles.
When the truth broke upon me I turned round upon my brother with a great breath of gratitude and relief.