“I shall do nothing of the sort,” said Victor. “If the young lady who was so kind as to bestow it upon me asks for its return, I will give it to her, but nothing shall force me to give it to you.”
“We will see about that,” cried the Count, and before Victor had divined his intention, the enraged man drew his stiletto and made a thrust at him. Victor threw up his left hand to ward off the thrust, receiving a severe cut which bled freely.
Physically, Victor was much more than a match for the Count. Grasping the latter’s wrist, he bent his right hand backward until the fingers loosed their hold upon the stiletto and it fell to the ground. Victor gave the weapon a vigorous kick, and it disappeared from sight in a clump of bushes. He next gave the Count a push backward, crying as he did so:
“Now, let me pass!”
But the Count had reached that stage where ungovernable fury takes the place of reason. He aimed a blow with his fist at Victor, which the latter parried, while with his right hand, which was tightly clenched, he struck the Count fairly between the eyes and felled him to the ground.
In the struggle the white rose, which had been the cause of contention, had fallen upon the ground. Victor picked it up, and as he did so he noticed that its former white petals were now blood-stained. Her flower and his blood! He unbuttoned his coat, placed the rose over his heart, and then buttoned the garment again.
Casting a contemptuous look at his late antagonist, who seemed to be recovering consciousness, he retraced his steps through the wooded path, vaulted over the low gate, mounted his horse, and rode at a rapid rate towards Ajaccio.
CHAPTER XV.
A DUEL IN THE DARK.
Victor’s horse was in a decidedly jaded condition when he reached the hotel at Ajaccio. The young Lieutenant at once sought an interview with the Admiral and his daughter, and conveyed to them, in language as nearly approaching that used by Pascal Batistelli as he could remember, the latter’s courteous invitation for them to become his guests at Batistelli Castle.
“You call it a castle,” said Miss Helen. “Does it resemble those of mediæval times, with the moat about it, and a drawbridge and portcullis? How decidedly romantic that will be. I shall have to send an account of it to one of the London papers.”