“In that case, M. le Duc,” said he, “there is no more to be said. I protest I am unable to comprehend your Grace's complacence towards a rogue—even of your own household.”
Argyll rang a bell and concluded the interview.
“There has been enough of this,” he said. “I fear you do not clearly realise all the perils of your situation. You came here—you will pardon a man at my age insisting upon it, for I know the facts—with the set design of challenging one who properly or improperly has aroused your passion; you have accomplished your task, and must not consider yourself harshly treated if you have to pay the possible penalty.”
“Pardon, M. le Duc, it is not so, always with infinite deference, and without a coat as I have had the boldness to remark before: my task had gone on gaily enough had your Monsieur MacTaggart not been the victim of some inexplicable fever—unless as I sometimes suspect it were a preposterous jealousy that made me the victim of his somewhat stupid folly play.”
“You have accomplished your task, as I say,” proceeded Argyll, heedless of the interruption, “and to tell the truth, the thing has been done with an unpardonably primitive absence of form. I am perhaps an indifferent judge of such ceremonies; at my age—as you did me the honour to put it—that is only to be expected, but we used, when I was younger, to follow a certain formula in inviting our friend the enemy out to be killed. What is this hasty and clandestine encounter before the law of the land but a deliberate attempt at murder? It would be so even in your own country under the circumstances. M. le Comte, where were your seconds? Your wine-selling has opened in villainously bad circumstances, and you are in error to assume that the details of the code may be waived even among the Highland hills.”
A servant entered.
“Take this gentleman to the fosse,” said the Duke, with the ring of steel in his voice and his eyes snapping.
“At least there is as little form about my incarceration as about my poor duel,” said Count Victor.
“My father would have been somewhat more summary in circumstances like these,”, said the Duke, “and, by Heaven! the old style had its merits too; but these are different days, though, if I were you, I fancy I'd prefer the short shrift of Long David the dempster to the felon's cell. Be good enough to leave your sword.”
Count Victor said never a word, but placed the weapon in a corner of the room, made a deep congé, and went forth a prisoner.