Conde fiercely. “I allow no observations on my conduct.”
“I do not condescend to fathom it,” is the answer, with a contemptuous glance. “Jealousy and thirst for power——”
“Take that, old fool,” cried the Conde, silencing him with a sounding blow on the cheek, which made him reel backwards against the wall.
He could not speak, all his passion had vanished in the humiliation of being struck. White and tottering he stood, while his trembling hand sought the hilt of his sword.
“Mother of God!” he said at last, “you had better have finished me altogether than put this insult on me. Is it that you deem my arm so weak you mock me, Sir Count?” And as he spoke, with difficulty he drew his sword.
“Perhaps it is,” replies the other with an insolent laugh. “Put up your weapon, old man, or worse may come to you.”
“No, no,” returns Don Diego, the colour mounting to his cheek as his fingers feel the temper of the blade; “as knight to knight, who have so often stood side by side in battle, I demand a fair fight and no quarter.”
“As you will,” he answers, and an evil fire comes into his eyes. “It is a favour which, at your age, you have no right to demand. If you desire to be spitted, I will oblige you all the same.”
And then and there he drew his rapier, and placed himself in a posture of defence.