“Who are you?” cried Marse Charles, springing from his bed and stretching his swollen eyelids in the dusky light as his hand sought his sword.
“One who can do you a service,” said the devil, talking fine, for he always chose his language according to his surroundings.
Marse Charles’s brain was full of fever, and he put up his sword and listened, while he crushed nervously the rose within his palm.
“You are young, you are noble, you have the treasures of the earth before you,” said the devil, soothingly, “and yet you are the most miserable man in all creation.”
“What do you know about my misery?” cried Marse Charles, angrily.
“What do I not know?” asked the devil, sagely. “ I know that you love Demetria, that she disdains you, that you have a rival.”
“Ah!” sighed Marse Charles, “that is it—I have a rival! Whoever, whatever you are, aid me if you can, for I am mad with love. I have written a challenge to my rival, that we may settle this at daylight. I was about to send it when you called.”
“Not so fast,” said the devil, lifting a warning finger and drawing nearer. “Hot blood is the father of many regrets. Your rival is a better swordsman.”
“But ’tis honor! I do this for my honor!” said Marse Charles, loudly, puffing out his breast, frog fashion.
“Hush! not so loud! Your honor will do you much credit when you rot in the ground, run through with your rival’s sword,” sneered the devil, “leaving him in possession of Demetria’s favor. My plan is better than that.”