“You?”
“I. Aubray, Count Zarka.” The teeth were showing now in the wolfish grin as he reined up his horse, and the two men faced each other.
“On what ground, pray, Count Zarka?”
The lord of Rozsnyo gave a shrug of haughty indifference. “Is it necessary to explain that—even to you?” he asked with a sneer.
“If you please.” The young man insisted sternly.
The Count met his look with a scornful smile. “There can be but one reason. If you are so dense that you cannot comprehend it, I must leave you to find out. Only I have warned you, and you will do well not to slight my warning.”
“I shall do as I please, Count,” Von Tressen replied, longing to refute his suggestion by proclaiming himself Philippa’s betrothed husband, and yet restrained in honour from violating his implied promise to her. “As a man of the world, you must be aware that the Fräulein herself is the proper person to determine who her companion shall be. And I shall certainly not avoid her society unless she bids me do so.”
“So!” Zarka’s exclamation was not unlike a bark. “If you do not take warning when it is given you, my young friend, you may find yourself in trouble—or worse.” There was an evil blaze in the fierce eyes as he spoke, like the light in those of a thwarted beast of prey. “My intention was not to argue but to warn you off.”
“And I,” Von Tressen retorted, “have no intention of submitting to any interference, even from Count Zarka.”
“Then you defy me?” the Count cried, with an ugly scowl.