Dyck had been drinking, or he would not have spoken so; and when he was drunk daring was strong in him. He hated profoundly this man-so self-satisfied and satanic.
He kept a perfect coolness, however. Leonard Mallow should not see that he was upset. His wanton wordiness came to his rescue, and until the end of the game he played with sang-froid, daring, and skill. He loved cards; he loved the strife of skill against skill, of trick against trick, of hand against hand. He had never fought a duel in his life, but he had no fear of doing so.
At length, having won back nearly all he had lost, he rose to his feet and looked round.
“Is there any one here from whom I can ask a favour?”
Several stepped forward. Dyck nodded. One of them he knew. It was Sir Almeric Foyle.
“Thank you, Sir Almeric,” he said; “thank you. Shall it be swords or pistols?” he asked his enemy, coolly.
“Swords, if you please,” remarked Mallow grimly, for he had a gift with the sword.
Dyck nodded again.
“As you will. As you will!”