"Ay," said my lord, confronting him and with the point of his sword lowered to the ground. "Ay! Gerald St. Amande, none other. You execrable villain, we stand face to face at last as man to man, not man to boy as it once was. And what villainy are you upon now in this land? Answer me ere I slay you, as I intend to do ere long."
For reply the other said:
"'Tis so. We stand face to face at last. And the hour is yours. Your sword is drawn, mine is in its sheath, my pistols are unloaded since I fired them at the savages who pursued me. So be it. As well die by the hand of him I injured as by the torture or the weapons of those howling wolves who are on their way here----"
He paused a moment and then, loosening the cross-belt or scarf in which were two great pistols, he flung it and them at his lordship's feet, while at the same time he opened his waistcoat and tore aside his muslin ruffles.
"Now, Gerald St. Amande," he said, "as we stand face to face--'tis your own word--do your worst. If I have been a villain I am at least no coward. Do your worst."
'Twas indeed a strange scene--a fitting prelude to others still more strange that were to follow. This man, this robber--who when he first came among us we had deemed a courtly gentleman--stood there, tall and erect, with no muscle quivering, nay, almost with a look of scorn upon his face. In front of him, his sword still lowered, stood the other whom he invited to be his executioner, his eyes no longer flashing fire but dwelling upon his old enemy as though in wonder. Behind were Mary and myself trembling with apprehension and Mr. Kinchella whispering to his friend, "Gerald, forbear, forbear. Remember, vengeance is to the Lord. He will repay."
Though I felt no fear--since he had given me his promise--that his lordship would do justice upon O'Rourke now, I also took heart to whisper to him, "Is he beyond forgiveness, or at least so bad that he may not go in peace?"
But then Lord St. Amande spoke, saying: "That I should slay you now is impossible. In this house your life is sacred--at her prayer," and he pointed to me. "And, Since you are so bold a man, why such a villain? O'Rourke, seeing you as you are to-night I do believe you might have been worthy of better things. What had I, a helpless child, ever done to you that you should have sought my death as you did?"
"You had done nothing," the other replied, still standing in the same position as when he last spoke, "but your father was always my enemy, while your uncle was my friend. And I wanted money--when was there ever the time I did not want it until now, when I have taken honest service under Mr. Oglethorpe!--money for my sick daughter who is now dead so that I care not if I die too. Your uncle gave it to me largely to remove you."
"You swear that? If we should both live to reach England again would you swear that?"