“Cecil, Cecil!” she cried in a voice of agony, “why do you linger here? Why do you waste the precious moments? Fly—fly whilst there is time! Did you not hear? In a few minutes it will be too late!”
“It is too late now,” he answered, “and I have other work to do!”
Down at his feet she flung herself and clung with her little hands around his knees, so that for the moment he could not move.
“No, no!” she cried piteously, raising her tear-dimmed face to his. “It is not yet too late—not yet! Cecil, I entreat—I implore you for your own sake—for all our sakes—to save your life! The window is open—they cannot see the way you go!”
“And leave this man to point them on my track,” he answered bitterly. “You do not understand. My presence here is known. The whole countryside would be searched. I am no Monmouth to be taken in a ditch. And on my honour, I leave not Cleeve till I have fought this man.”
I looked at the firm, set face before me, and knew that though death stared him in the face he would keep his word. His sister knew it also, for with a low, moaning cry she released her hold. Then he strode towards me.
“Draw, sir,” he cried. “Men credit you at least with skill in swordplay.”
Then, seeing that I made no movement to lay hand to hilt, he added: “Must I strike you to arouse your courage? Are you a coward, sir, as well as a ruffian?”
But during the last few moments I had been thinking rapidly. I looked to the past, and saw little there to cheer me or regret. I looked to the future, and down the vista of the years to come I saw myself sink ever lower until it might be some chance tavern brawl found me at length a nameless grave. My glance wandered to my lady and——
“There is no need,” I answered quietly. “I will fight your Grace, but not here, where at any moment we may be interrupted. As the person challenged, I have the right of choosing the ground, and I claim my right. At the foot of the cliff path leading to the beach there is a level stretch of sand. That is the spot I choose.”