“I have said my say, your grace,” he said, with a return to his old languid sang-froid. “I imagine that you have nothing to say in response, and that you plead guilty. I suppose in your world a woman’s heart counts for little, and that, if you break it, a graceful apology is considered all that is necessary. Out here, in this wild, God-forsaken place, we judge differently. We hold that a woman’s broken heart demands some reparation—and punishment. I demand that reparation and penalty. You and I, my lord duke, have a long and bitter account to settle. We will settle it here and now, if you please.”
Trafford looked at him with knit brows.
“What do you mean?” he asked, hoarsely.
“I mean,” said Varley, attempting to roll a cigarette but failing, “I mean that only one of us shall leave this place alive. You are a gentleman and a nobleman, and therefore, I presume, a good shot. I also am accounted a fair one. We are therefore equal. We will measure out twenty paces—and fight at that.”
As he spoke, he drew his revolver from his belt and examined it with almost a listless air. It seemed as if in his own mind he were quite sure that he should exact the full penalty he deemed payable.
Trafford stood stock-still for a moment, then he too drew his revolver.
As Varley turned to measure the distance, a man came from behind the hut. It was Simon. He stood and stared at the other two with undisguised astonishment. Varley nodded to him.
“Where is Esmeralda?” he asked.
“Escaped,” said Simon, coolly.