Sir Norman, with his hand still on his shoulder, returned not the courtesy, and regarding the gallant count with a stern eye.
“Where is Leoline?” he frigidly repeated.
“Really,” said the count, with some embarrassment, “you attack me so unexpectedly, and so like a ghost or a highwayman—by the way I have a word to say to you about highwaymen, and was seeking you to say it.”
“Where is Leoline?” shouted the exasperated young knight, releasing his shoulder, and clutching him by the throat. “Tell me or, by Heaven! I'll pitch you neck and heels into the Thames!”
Instantly the sword of the count's companion flashed in the moonlight, and, in two seconds more, its blue blade would have ended the earthly career of Sir Norman Kingsley, had not the count quickly sprang back, and made a motion for his companion to hold.
“Wait!” he cried, commandingly, with his arm outstretched to each. “Keep off! George, sheathe your sword and stand aside. Sir Norman Kingsley, one word with you, and be it in peace.”
“There can be no peace between us,” replied that aggravated young gentleman, fiercely “until you tell me what has become of Leoline.”
“All in good time. We have a listener, and does it not strike you our conference should be private!”
“Public or private, it matters not a jot, so that you tell me what you've done with Leoline,” replied Sir Norman, with whom it was evident getting beyond this question was a moral and physical impossibility. “And if you do not give an account of yourself, I'll run you through as sure as your name is Count L'Estrange!”
A strange sort of smile came over the face of the count at this direful threat, as if he fancied in that case, he was safe enough; but Sir Norman, luckily, did not see it, and heard only the suave reply: