“The man that says that Diana Harley was ruined by me, lies,” said the partisan, in harsh tones. “I loved her, but you—curse you—had her—she was your wife. From that moment I swore to kill you, but nothing would have tempted me to stain her by so much as one word a maiden or chaste wife might not hear.”
De Cavannes, for the first time looked incredulous, and Harley, noticing the look, laughed a strange, hollow, despairing laugh.
“You Frenchmen could not understand that of a cold, brutal Englishman, could you? Fool; in the apathetic seeming hearts of the North, love burns with a fervor you mincing dancing-masters never dreamed of, as white as the furnace flame that melts steel and as pure of dross. I tell you I loved Diana. In that love an angel might have gloried. It was pure at least. If I sinned it was like Lucifer, not like your gentlemen of the court, who counted every woman fair prey.”
Here, for the first time, the count interposed.
“Stop, monsieur; you know better than that with me. Besides, you who boast of your purity in love, what meant that scene I witnessed, Diana in your arms before my very face? Ha, monsieur, does that make you wince?”
The iron firmness which had so far distinguished Harley was indeed giving way to all seeming. The strong man trembled violently, and turned a gaze, half piteous half fierce on the second Diana, whose marvelous likeness to the first had been declared. Then he suddenly ground his teeth and turned on the count with a ferocity that bordered on insanity, while he burst out:
“Ay, glory in it, Alphonse. I ruined you, and you detected me. My defeat and disgrace were complete, and in that disgrace she pitied me and allowed her long-smothered love to burst forth. And I, weak fool that I was, lost control of myself when I saw her tears. In one mad moment I told her all my long love, and that moment was her last. You saw us, and stabbed her. Do you know why I did not kill you then, Alphonse de Cavannes? Because you would have gone to meet her. You were a noble man, then. Now, you have stained your hands with blood, and are doomed. I hate you now, as I always did. Now take my curse and speed to hottest hell, to meet me when I come!”
As he spoke he flung his rifle into the palm of his hand with a clash, and the flash and report instantly followed.
That moment would have been the last of the Count de Cavannes, but for the promptitude of Adrian Schuyler. The active hussar had been watching the partisan keenly, and in the nick of time his saber left its sheath striking up the barrel of the piece, to be plunged the next instant into the very heart of Pierce Harley.
Without a groan, the grim partisan dropped dead, as Diana threw her arms round her father’s deliverer with a shriek.