“You faced him!”
“Yes—I!” Mark’s face was livid with passion; he knew that these men held his personal courage in contempt, and he had a sort of mad desire to convince them that he was equal to themselves in that respect. “Fannin and Clarage will support me in this,” he continued, knowing that he could depend upon the support of these worthies in anything.
“Well,” said Campbell, in a changed tone, “if you successfully faced this wonderful swordsman I beg your pardon, for anything that I may have said or hinted at.”
“He did not hold his ground long when I sprang up the steps, I assure you,” cried Mark, delighted at the impression which he had created. He at once plunged into a glowing account of what had occurred—colored to suit himself, of course; but he had not spoken a dozen words when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and turning he found himself gazing into a pair of clear gray eyes which looked at him from out the holes of a black mask.
“I beg your pardon,” said Tom Deering, quietly, for the masker was he, “but will you kindly repeat what you have said.”
Mark shook himself free of the clutch upon his shoulder and returned, angrily:
“Who are you, sir? I do not know you. I am speaking to these gentlemen, and am not addressing you.”
“Once more I beg your pardon.” Tom’s voice was still quiet. “But your statement to these gentlemen,” bowing to the young officers, “was what made me interrupt you. I know something of the affair at Foster’s, and would like to correct what you have mis-stated.”
Mark trembled with mingled rage and apprehension.
“Hello,” said Campbell, in a low voice to Blake, “our friend here seems able to put a spoke in Harwood’s wheel. This is most interesting.”