As if confronted with some new and startling problem, the man turned aside and took a few steps to and fro before he spoke again.
“Your statement sounds so improbable that I may well hesitate to accept it. If the lady has not told you her name, if you have been acting in ignorance of her rank, then is the guilt hers, and not yours. Nay,” he added in a milder tone, “I am ready to withdraw my reflections upon your honour.”
“You are very good. But if I am honourable how can the lady be dishonourable?”
“That will be seen in the morning.”
“Before the duel, I trust?”
“Why, truly,” said the other with a significant smile, “you will hardly be in a condition to apprehend an explanation after the duel.”
“That’s to be seen. But methinks you are somewhat inconsistent, for, surely in admitting—as you have admitted—that my honour is stainless, you have, from your point of view, removed all cause for the duel?”
“So one might think,” returned the other, who seemed to be growing more calm, “but it is not so. Matters are in a fairer state than I had thought them. This scandal may yet be kept quiet; it need not become the talk of Europe. None the less, Lord Courtenay, you must pay the penalty of your daring. You have done—unwittingly it is true—that which can be atoned for only by death.”
“Where shall the place of our meeting be?” asked Wilfrid with some impatience, for he was eager to hasten after the Princess.
“You know the Viborg Road running northwards from the city? Good! A little way beyond the eight verst-post on the right-hand side of the road is a path leading to a small glade. At eight o’clock—seven hours from now—I shall be there, attended by a friend. And you?”