“Yes, I must have seen her—but where? In my dreams—in my fancy,” he muttered to himself as his eyes continued following the fair young girl. “Nonsense! I am allowing my imagination to run away with me. And yet I do know that countenance, I am certain of it.”
Perhaps the young lady saw his eyes following hers. She seemed at all events to be paying but very little attention to the observations of her partner.
Morton at length noticed him; he was a young man, and had the air of a person thoroughly well satisfied with himself; but as Ronald watched him more narrowly he was convinced that he had taken more wine than his head could bear; his flushed countenance and unsteady movements after a time showed this. His partner probably had made the same discovery; and though in those days his condition would not have excited the disgust it would at the present in the mind of a well-educated girl, she was evidently anxious to obtain a seat, and to release herself from his society. Still he held her hand with a look of maudlin admiration, and insisted on forcing her once more down the dance. It was evident that she would have to struggle to escape from him, and rather than attract observation she allowed herself to be dragged once more towards the bottom of the room.
Such was the interpretation Morton put on what he witnessed, and he felt strongly inclined to rush forward to assist her. The couple had got close to him, by which time the gentleman had become still more excited and unsteady—his foot slipped—the fair girl looked up imploringly at Morton’s countenance, so he thought—her partner fell to the ground, and would have dragged her with him, when Ronald sprang forward and saved her from the threatened catastrophe.
“Thank you—thank you!—oh take me to my friend!” she exclaimed, her voice trembling with nervousness.
Ronald led her through the crowd; her partner picked himself up, and uttering an exclamation would have followed them, had not some acquaintance near at hand held him back, and ultimately persuaded him quietly to retire to another room; leave the ball altogether, he would not.
“To be cut out by a sea-monster, a porpoise, a mere nautilus—that will never do!” he hiccupped out. “No, no—I must have my revenge on the fellow. I’ll insult him; drill a hole in him; my honour requires it. Couldn’t show my face again until I have killed my man.”
The young man did not give vent to these expressions until his more sensible acquaintance had retired; but two or three much of his own character remained, who partly from a love of mischief, utterly regardless of the consequences, persuaded him that he had received so gross an insult that it could be atoned for only by mortal combat.
“We’ll settle matters for you,” said Lieutenant Bolton, a chum of Maguire’s. “Go back when you feel a little better; tread on his toe, or dig your elbow into his ribs, and tell him quietly you intended to do so. It will wonderfully facilitate our arrangements.”
Meantime Morton—totally unconscious of the annoyance preparing for him, and with the fair stranger whom he had rescued resting on his arm, was looking for a vacant seat in which to place her.