“No, it is nothing,” was the reply. “I have, as you may easily imagine, gone through a good deal, both mentally and bodily, of late, and I am a little overworn; but a couple of hours’ sleep will set me right again.”
“Then the sooner you take it the better,” rejoined Frere. “Never mind me; I shall ensconce myself in this arm-chair till the man of war, your second, makes his appearance, and sleep or read as the Fates may incline. What time do you expect your accomplice?”
“He will be here at half-past four,” was the reply.
“And it is now just two; so turn in, and pleasant dreams to you.” Thus saying, Frere threw himself back in the chair, and drawing a volume of Dante out of his pocket, set to work to polish up his Italian, as he termed it. Lewis rose to follow his friend’s advice, but a mist seemed to swim before his eyes, his brain reeled, his trembling knees refused to support him, and staggering forward he sank heavily to the ground in a fainting fit. Frere, much alarmed, raised him in his arms, and carrying him with some difficulty into the inner room, laid him on his bed, and began, with more energy than skill, to apply every conceivable or inconceivable remedy to recover him, but with only partial success, for although after the lapse of a few moments colour returned to his lips and pulsation to his heart, he neither spoke nor appeared to recognise his friend’s voice, and after a few inarticulate murmurs sank into a dull, heavy sleep. Frere covered him with the bedclothes as well as he was able, then drawing a chair to the bedside, seated himself thereupon to watch his slumbers. Half-past four arrived, and with it Major Ehrenburg, the Austrian officer who had promised to act as Lewis’s second. Before he came a new idea had entered Frere’s head—it might not be necessary to make use of the apology at all, Lewis’s sudden illness would be a sufficient reason for his not meeting his adversary.
“The amusement you have promised yourself in seeing my friend shoot or be shot you will be disappointed of, Mein lieber Herr?” he said with a quiet smile, as the Austrian stared at him in surprise and twisted his moustaches fiercely. “Lord Bellefield in his angry moods is no doubt a very terrible fellow, but Lewis is about to wrestle with a more deadly foe yet, or I am much mistaken.”
“Excuse me, sir, I have no time for badinage,” returned the other, bowing with haughty politeness; “nothing can prevent this duel. I must speak with the Signore Luigi himself immediately. Permit me to pass.”
“Oh, certainly,” replied Frere, holding open the door of the bedroom; “but in regard to nothing being able to prevent the duel, ‘there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophy.’ You will find my words to be true. See, his adversary has laid him on his back already.”
The young soldier advanced to the bedside; Lewis still slept, but his slumbers were disturbed and feverish. As the other bent over him he turned uneasily and murmured some inarticulate sounds. Laying his hand on his shoulder, Ehrenburg attempted to rouse him.
“Luigi,” he said, “it is late; they will be on the ground before us.” The only reply was again an inarticulate murmur; but on his repeating his summons Lewis sat up and stared about him with a look of dull unconsciousness, then a wild light came into his eyes, and glaring furiously at the Austrian, he exclaimed in a hoarse voice—
“Villain, it is false! she loves you not—she never loved you!”