“Will not be a laggard in seeking the spot. And our weapons?”
“The choice belongs to you as the challenged.”
Wilfrid, mindful of Ouvaroff’s recent devotion to swordsmanship, and willing to accommodate him in the matter, made the reply:—
“What say you to swords of three feet?”
“Accepted,” said the other with evident satisfaction in his tone. “My second shall bring the weapons with him. A doctor,” he added significantly, “we shall not require.”
“If you will put that last remark in the singular,” said Wilfrid, “I will have no fault to find with it. Why, then, matters being thus arranged, we need not prolong this interview. The rendezvous, a glade near the eighth verst-post on the Viborg Road; the time, eight o’clock. Till then, farewell.”
With that Wilfrid turned away, in an agony of suspense as to what might have happened to the Princess should she have come within view of the four liveried hirelings. And now for the first time he began to realise what a tool he had been in the hands of Count Baranoff. He had done the very thing that Baranoff wanted. His coming into Russia with the chivalrous purpose of defending a lady from the wicked intrigues of that minister had ended in compromising her name and imperilling her safety! She had given him the kiss of love in spite of her belief, “It is death if we are seen!”
And they had been seen, and that by an enemy!
Death might perhaps have been Wilfrid’s lot a few days earlier, but the re-establishment of the British Embassy put a different complexion upon matters. The Czar, the Court-party, the ministers, or whoever Marie’s mysterious enemies might be, could not very well arrest the nephew of Great Britain’s representative for a fault which, at its worst, was merely an irregular amour; still, bent on compassing his end, they sought to dispose of him in a manner speciously fair and open, by getting Prince Ouvaroff, the newly-expert swordsman, to challenge him to a duel to the death.
Well, that part of the plot should fail; the combat had no terrors for Wilfrid.