In another case Luke Asgill would have blessed the chance that linked him with her, that wrought a tie between them, and cast her on his help. But he had guessed, before she opened her mouth, what she had to say—nay, for hours he had lain sleepless on his bed, with eyes staring into the darkness, anticipating it. He had been certain of the issue—he knew James McMurrough; and, being a man who loved Flavia indeed, but loved life also, he had foreseen, with the cold sweat on his brow, what he would be driven to do.
He made no haste to answer, therefore, and his tone, when he did answer, was dull and lifeless. "Is it ill he is?" he said. "It's a bad morning to be ill, and a meeting on hand."
She did not answer.
"Is he too bad to stand?" he continued. He made no attempt to hide his comprehension or his scorn.
"I don't say that," she faltered.
"Perhaps he told you," Asgill said—and there was nothing of the lover in his tone—"to speak to me?"
She nodded.
"It is I am to—put it off, I suppose?"
"If it be possible," she cried. "Oh, if it be possible! Is it?"
He stood, thinking, with a gloomy face. From the first he had seen that there were two ways only of extricating The McMurrough. The one by a mild explanation, which would leave his honour in the mud. The other by an explanation after a different fashion, vi et armis, vehementer, with the word "liar" ready to answer to the word "coward." But he who gave this last explanation must be willing and able to back the word with the deed, and stop cavilling with the sword-point.