“And the scoundrel has my letters?” said Mark, as his face grew purple with passion.
“He has them no longer,” said Travers. “Here they are, sir. They Were shown in confidence to my father, by one, who certainly is not your friend. Sir Marmaduke asked permission to let me see them, and I have taken on myself, without permission, to give them back to you.”
“At whose suggestion,” said Mark, proudly, “comes this act of grace? Is it your father, who extends his protection to a tenant, or is it yourself, whose wish is to humble me by an obligation?”
“There is none,” said Travers, frankly. “I believe, that scoundrels without heart or courage have laid a trap for a man who has both one and the other. I do not desire you should accept my conduct as a favour, still less as offering any bar to such a reckoning between us as two gentleman of equal place and standing may demand or expect from one another.”
“Say you so, indeed!” cried Mark, as his eyes flashed with joy: “is that your meaning?”
“There's my hand on it,” said Travers, “as friend or foe!”
Mark grasped his hand, and wrung it with a convulsive pressure.
“Then you are aware that you owe me such a reparation,” said he, in a voice tremulous with emotion. “You do not forget the day at Carrig-na-curra—beside the hearth—before my brother?”
“I remember it well,” said Travers. “I ask your pardon for the insult. It was unworthy of me to have made the speech, nor have I been on good terms with myself since I uttered it.”
Mark dropped his head, and uttered not a word. He could better have looked on Travers wounded and bleeding than have seen him thus elevated above himself by temper and manly candour. The vengeance he had yearned after so long was not only snatched from his grasp, but in the bitterness of disappointment its sting was turned against himself.