You may be sure that by now the anger gale had blown itself out, that the madness had passed for both of us; and when I stirred, Richard broke out in a tremulous babblement of thanksgiving for that he had not slain me outright.
"I was mad, Jack; as mad as any Bedlamite," he would say. "The devil whispered me that you would fight; that you wanted but a decent excuse to thrust me out of the way. And when I saw you would not stir, 'twas too late to do aught but turn the flat of the blade. Oh, God help me! I'll never let a second thought of that little Tory prat-a-pace send me to hell again."
"Nay," said I; "no such rash promises, I pray you, Richard. We are but two poor fools, with the love of a woman set fair between us. But you need not fight me for it. The love is yours—not mine."
"Don't say that, Jack; I'm selfish enough to wish it were true; as it is not. I know whereof I speak."
"No," I denied, struggling to my feet; "it has been yours from the first, Dick. I am but a sorry interloper."
For a moment he was all solicitude to know if my head would let me stand; but when I showed him I was no more than clumsily dizzy from the effects of the blow, he went on.
"I say I know, and I do, Jack. She has refused me again."
I groaned in spirit. I knew it must have come to that. Yet I would ask when and where.
"'Twas on our last day's riding," he went on; "after we had had your note saying you would undertake a mission for Colonel Davie."
I took two steps and groped for the horse's bridle rein.