There was a pause before the last word, and it was unpleasantly emphasized. Then he advanced a step or two toward the Frenchman, without waiting for a reply, and spoke in a totally different tone—brief and imperative—“Tu vas me rendre ça?”
Duchesne had been rather startled by the apparition of the new-comer, and, if he had been cool enough to reflect, would not have fancied him as an antagonist; but his passion blinded him, and strong drink had heated his brutal blood above boiling point; he ground his teeth, as he answered, till the foam ran down—
“Le rendre—à toi—chien d’Anglais? je m’en garderai bien. Si la belle demoiselle veut le ravoir, elle viendra demain, me prier bien gentiment; et elle viendra—seule.”
Now Royston Keene was thoroughly impregnated with the bitterest of aristocratic prejudices: no man alive more utterly ignored the doctrines of liberty, equality, and fraternity; besides this, he had acquired, to an unusual extent, the overbearing tone and demeanor which the habit of having soldiers under them is supposed to bring, too commonly, to modern centurions. He actually experienced a “fresh sensation” as he heard the insult leveled by those coarse plebeian lips at the woman “he delighted to honor.” His swarthy face grew white down to the lips, whose quivering the heavy mustache could not quite conceal, and he shivered from head to foot where he stood. Jean Duchesne thought he detected the familiar signs of a terror he had often inspired. “Tu as peur donc? Tu tressailles déjà, blanc-bec! Tonnerre de Dì! tu as raison.” Not a trace of passion lingered in the major’s clear, cold voice, that fell upon the ear with the ring of steel. “On ne tressaille pas, quand on est sûr de gagner. Regarde donc en arrière.”
Involuntarily the Frenchman looked behind him, expecting a fresh adversary from that quarter. As he turned his head Keene sprang forward, and plucked the parasol from his grasp: in one second he had laid it lightly in its owner’s hand; in the next he had returned to his position, and stood, ready for the onset, motionless as the marble Creugas.
He had not long to wait. Even a “well-conditioned” Gaul does not like being outwitted, and the successful ruse exasperated Duchesne into insanity. Roaring like a wild beast that has missed its spring, he rushed in to grapple. Royston never moved a finger till the enemy was well within distance; then, slinging his left hand straight out from the hip, he “let him have it” fairly between the eyes.
One blow—only one—but a blow that, had it been stricken in the days of Olympian and Nemean contests—where Pindar and his peers were “reporters”—might well have earned a dithyramb; a blow that would have gladdened the sullen spirit of the old gladiator who trained the Cool Captain, if the prophet had lived to see his auguries fulfilled, or if sights and sounds from upper earth could penetrate to the limbo of defunct athletæ. Nothing born of woman could have stood before it, and it was small blame to Jean Duchesne that he dropped like a log in his tracks. In another instant his conqueror had one knee on the chest of the fallen man, and both hands were griping his throat.
His own face was fearfully changed. It wore an expression that has been very often seen in the sixty centuries that have passed since Cain struck his brother down, but has very seldom been described; for the dead tell no tales beyond what their features, stiffened in hopeless terror, may betray. It has been seen on lost battle-fields—in the streets of cities given up to pillage, when the storming is just over and the carnage begun—on desolate hill-sides—in dark forest-glades—in chambers of lonely houses, strongly but vainly barred—in every place where men in the death agony have “cried and there was none to help them.” It was full time for some one to interfere when the devil had entered into Royston Keene.
From the moment that affairs had assumed such a different aspect Mr. Fullarton had gradually been recovering his composure, and by this time was quite himself again. He advanced confidently, and, laying his hand on the major’s shoulder with an imposing air, and with his best pulpit manner, enunciated, “Thou shalt do no murder!” The latter, as we have already said, was utterly beside himself; but even this can not excuse the abrupt, impatient movement that sent such an eminent divine reeling three paces back. The rigid lips only twisted themselves into an evil sneer, and the cruel fingers tightened their gripe till the features of the prostrate wretch grew convulsed and black.
The whole scene had passed so quickly, though it takes so long to describe (some of us never can succeed in stenography), that Cecil felt perfectly lost in a whirl of conflicting emotions, till she saw the face in life before her that she had been fancying ever since last night. A great fear came over her, but she overcame it, and 37 her woman’s instinct told her what to do. She laid her little hand upon Keene’s arm before he was aware that she was near, and whispered so that only he could hear, “For my sake.” Only these three simple words; but the exorcism was complete.