“Good! got the right sort of stuff in him,” thought Wilfrid as he saw the other grasp his sword-hilt and prepare to defend himself.
“In the morning,” continued the stranger, “when you shall have learned my name you will readily acknowledge that I have valid reasons for preserving to-night my incognito.”
“Egad, you are very mysterious, my one-time friend,” thought Wilfrid.
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” continued the other, “than to cross swords with you here and now, but that in so doing we should be abusing the hospitality of our princely host, Sumaroff. Moreover, the clash of our steel is certain to draw around us a crowd who would seek to stop our fighting; and,” added he, with a grim and deadly earnestness, “when we have once begun there must be no stopping till we make an end.”
In Wilfrid’s opinion Ouvaroff must have attained considerable proficiency in swordsmanship to hold language such as this. Always having a respect for the man willing to fight, he replied with a bow—
“Be it so; since you wish it, retain your mask and your incognito, which,” added he to himself, “is no incognito.” Aloud he continued, “Your desire to cross swords with me meets with a ready response. May I point out, however, that it is somewhat unusual to invite a man to a duel without assigning due cause. You have not yet justified your reflection on my honour.”
“Honour!” sneered the other in a voice quivering with suppressed passion. “Honour! Are clandestine meetings consistent with the honour of an English gentleman? You meet—” He looked cautiously round as he spoke—“Let her be nameless, for who knows what ears may be within hearing? You meet her secretly at midnight in the Michaelovski Palace; you meet her with kisses and embraces at this masquerade; you are seen leaving her bed-chamber in the inn at Gora. You, who have brought shame upon her—do you talk of honour?”
Through the holes of his mask the man’s eyes glowed like fire; a great rage seemed to hold him. He fingered his sword-hilt, as if longing to hurl himself upon Wilfrid and end his life there and then, without troubling to wait for the morning.
As for Wilfrid, the words of the other fell upon him with the shock of a thunderbolt, filling him with a dreadful dismay, not so much on his own account as on Marie’s. What had hitherto been a haunting suspicion was now converted to a black truth; the bed-chamber incident was known to Ouvaroff, might be known to others! All innocent as the Princess was, the finger of scorn would now be pointed to her as one fallen from maidenly purity. And the bitterest thought of all was there seemed no way of refuting the slander. Vain would it be for him or for her to deny. The mocking nobility, reared in the tainted atmosphere of Catharine’s Court, and accustomed to measure others by their own standard, would accept as true neither his word nor that of the Princess. She was branded with the mark of shame, and the cause of it all was himself—Wilfrid Courtenay!
Well, he could have one satisfaction at least, the satisfaction of seeing the original traducer fall dead at his feet, for he would give him no quarter in the morning.