Spooner turned pale; but relying on Lord Bellefield’s support, managed to stammer out, “And pray, sir, who the deuce may you be?”
“I will tell you, and this worshipful company also,” exclaimed Lord Bellefield, stepping forward. “This fellow is, or rather was, a menial in General Grant’s household, discarded for insolent behaviour, and as such unfit for the society of gentlemen, into which as he has now ventured to intrude himself, I, for one, vote he be ignominiously expelled.”
This speech caused, as might be expected, a sensation throughout the room, and the bystanders congregated round Lewis and Lord Bellefield, glancing from one to the other, to discover from their bearing and appearance which was the true man, and which the false. Up to this moment Lewis had been wrapped in a large Spanish cloak; he now allowed it to glide from his shoulders, as, advancing a step, he boldly confronted his adversary.
“Your lordship has been pleased to speak explicitly,” he said; “were I inclined to follow your example, I might, with some shadow of truth, denounce you as a ruined blackleg and an outlawed defaulter; but I prefer simply declaring that in the statement you have just made you have maliciously and unequivocally—lied!”
As he spoke he raised his head proudly, and folding his arms across his breast, waited the effect of his words. He was not kept long in suspense. However numerous might be Lord Bellefield’s faults, a want of personal courage was not one of them. As Lewis referred to the cause of his ignominious exile his face grew pale with rage, but when he gave him the lie his fury became uncontrollable. Springing forward with a leap like that of a maddened tiger, he struck Lewis a violent blow on the cheek, which, firmly as his feet were planted, staggered him, exclaiming as he did so—
“Take that, beggar!” Instead of rushing on his adversary, as those amongst the spectators who knew him (and there were several who did so) expected, Lewis, recovering himself, stood for an instant regarding Lord Bellefield with a smile of triumph, though to those who remarked him closely there was an expression in his eyes which, in spite of themselves, caused them to shudder, while, strange to say, he was drawing a soiled white kid glove on his right hand; having done so, he advanced a step, saying in a stern, deep voice—
“Your Lordship is too generous—the beggar returns your almsgiving—thus!”
As he spoke there was a sudden movement in the crowd—a frightful blow was struck, and Lord Bellefield lay insensible on the ground, the blood flowing from a cut on his forehead, whilst over him stood Lewis, his mouth set, and his eyes burning with the fire of hatred. Several of the bystanders sprang forward to assist the fallen man, but Lewis sternly motioned them back.
“Wait,” he said,—his voice sounded deep and hollow, and there was something in the expression of his face which quelled the stoutest heart amongst those who stood around him,—drawing the glove from the hand which had struck the blow, he dipped it in the blood that still trickled from the forehead of the fallen man, muttering to himself as he did so, “That, then, has come to pass—is the rest to follow?” He next examined the countenance of his prostrate foe—“He is merely stunned,” he said; “raise him, and bring water to bathe his temples.” As he spoke he assisted those who stepped forward to lift the injured man and place him on a chair; having done so, he left him to the care of the bystanders, and again folding his arms, stood coolly awaiting the issue.
The event justified his predictions: on the first application of the cold water Lord Bellefield revived, and in less time than could have been expected, the bleeding, which was very slight, was arrested. As soon as he had recovered sufficiently to speak, he said, addressing a young Italian of rank, with whom he was acquainted, and who had been bathing his temples with the cold water—