He did not realize that he had fallen at once into the trap my lord had prepared for him.
"Come, then," observed his smiling adversary, helping himself to a pinch of snuff with a languid air. "If you will have it so, your forest lair will be the best scene for your lesson. You will be more at home there; though, if you prefer it, nearer to your Manor, and within call of your servants——."
"I am ready," broke in Morice, sternly. "Let it be where you will, and with what weapons you will, so it be at once."
Lord Denningham did not hesitate.
"The forest, by all means, then," he yawned. "and pistols will be more appropriate than swords. Stap me! It's the first time I'll have been owl-shooting since I was a boy."
Morice did not reply, though he strode quickly enough on the heels of the other as he led the way down the path, through the wicket, and across the heather-crowned strip of moorland towards the outskirts of the forest.
The cool breeze blowing in his face seemed to restore the young man to his senses. He was going to fight a duel with Lord Denningham.
Honour demanded it now.
But he was remembering tales which had often been the subject of Carlton House gossip—tales of this man's skill with the pistols, his unerring aim, his callous disregard of life.
"You are going to death, you are going to death," moaned the autumn wind in his ear; and the voice seemed like the voice of Cécile crying its sad farewell.