“Father Tom—glen!” ejaculated the Englishman, with genuine surprise. “What? do priests carry challenges and act as seconds in your infernal country?”
“Yes,” I answered scornfully; “why should they not? Their services are more often necessary than those of a surgeon,” I added significantly, turning away.
The party slowly rode off, with the exception of the Hon. Blanche Sackville, who lingered for a moment behind. In an instant I was at her side. Bending her blushing face over the neck of her white filly, she said hurriedly:—
“Words have passed between Lord Somerset and yourself. You are about to fight. Don’t deny it—but hear me. You will meet him—I know your skill of weapons. He will be at your mercy. I entreat you to spare his life!”
I hesitated. “Never!” I cried passionately; “he has insulted a Denville!”
“Terence,” she whispered, “Terence—for my sake?”
The blood rushed to my cheeks, and her eyes sought the ground in bashful confusion.
“You love him then?” I cried bitterly.
“No, no,” she said agitatedly,—“no, you do me wrong. I—I—cannot explain myself. My father!—the Lady Dowager Sackville—the estate of Sackville—the borough—my uncle, Fitzroy Somerset. Ah! what am I saying? Forgive me. Oh, Terence,” she said, as her beautiful head sank on my shoulder, “you know not what I suffer!”
I seized her hand and covered it with passionate kisses.