“The devil´s in them,” cries Carew, his eyes fairly aglow and his lips twitching like one in a fit.
This time the Vicomte won. “I knew how it would be,” he said, with an air of pensive sadness; “I have no luck, I can do no more.”
Carew laughed loudly, almost as if this last stroke had touched his brain. “Luck, what more would you have? Here have I been sitting for three weeks while you plucked me like a hen feather by feather, with a smile on your face, and I know not what devil´s craft in your fingers.”
“These are foolish words, sir, for which I will not ask you to account. To talk of craft comes but ill from one who himself----” Here he stopped and looked at Carew steadily. “God knows I am but a pitiful fellow myself, and yet I would I had never seen your face.”
The words were spoken slowly, with an emphasis that carried home their hidden meaning; they struck home like a knife. Then without warning Carew reached suddenly across the table, and struck the Vicomte a blow with his closed hand fairly on the lips.
“You are a liar and a cheat,” he said, “and I will kill you like a dog.”
For a moment or more the Vicomte did not stir; apparently he was afraid to trust himself to speak; only with his handkerchief, which he all the time carried in his hand, he wiped the thin trickle of blood from his lips. Then he rose to his feet and going over to the door, turned the key in the lock. Thereafter he whipped out his sword and advanced into the middle of the room. There was a high colour in his cheeks and his eyes shone with a fine glow in them. Otherwise his manner was perfectly calm, and his voice came slowly and with distinct utterance. “Mr. Carew,” he said, “no man living will dare to do what you have done to-night and live to tell it. I would have borne with much for your sister´s sake; here not even she can save you. And yet it is almost a dishonour to cross swords with you and treat you as a gentleman--you, whom I have myself seen to cheat and cozen like a common tavern-brawler. And you have dared to use these opprobrious words to me--to me who did my best to return your losses without offending your nice sense of honour. Now, sir, draw your sword and say your prayers, for I think you are going to die.”
Carew was not wanting in physical courage, nor backward at any time in a quarrel. But at this moment it was his own vehement and overmastering desire--a desire too deep for any mere speech--to find an outlet for his passion of hate and shame in a struggle with the man who held his fortune and good name in his hand. To hold him at his mercy was at this time his dearest wish on earth. He drew his sword, and taking his ground lowered the point sullenly as the Vicomte saluted with his weapon.
Then their blades were crossed. The light was faint and low, for the candles had nearly burnt themselves out, and as the spacious chamber rang with the clash of the sword blades, the deep shadows came and went with a grotesque and everchanging motion. Carew had the advantage in the length of reach and once he touched his opponent in the arm, but after a few passes he saw he had met his superior, and a feeling of great dread overtook him. How he hated the man with the cold, impassive face and disdainful smile! But for that bit of glittering steel that guarded him like a wall, how gladly he would have taken him by the throat and glutted himself with vengeance. And he saw that the Vicomte played with him as if unwilling to strike him down too soon, and that, too, added to his passion of fury and hate.
The Vicomte still stood on the defensive and parried his thrusts with the greatest ease in the world. Again and again he tried to enter upon his guard, but always with the same result. Then there came a violent knocking upon the door and the sound of voices raised in alarm and expostulation.