Part 10 (1/2)

CHAPTER IX

'Ah! why should love, like men in drinking songs, Spice his fair banquet with the dust of earth?'

Lord St. Maurice walked straight into his room without perceiving that it was already occupied. He flung his hat into a corner, and himself into an easy-chair, with an exclamation which was decidedly unparliamentary.

”D--n!” he muttered.

”That's a lively greeting,” remarked a voice from the other end of the room.

He looked quickly up. A tall figure loomed out of the shadows of the apartment, and presently resolved itself into the figure of a man with his hands in his pockets, and a huge meerschaum pipe in his mouth.

”Briscoe, by Jove! How long have you been here?”

”About two hours. I've been resting. Anything wrong downstairs? Thought I heard a row.”

”Strike a light, there's a good fellow, and I'll tell you.”

The new-comer moved to the window, and pulled aside the curtain.

”Moon's good enough,” he remarked. ”I hate those sickly candles. Great Scott! what's the matter with you? You look as black as thunder.”

Lord St. Maurice told him the whole story. Martin Briscoe listened without remark until he had finished. Then he pushed the tobacco firmly down into the bowl of his pipe and re-lit it, smoking for a few minutes in silence.

”I tell you what, Maurice,” he said at length, ”of all the blood-thirsty little devils that ever were hatched, that Marioni takes the cake. Why, I'm going to fight him myself to-morrow morning.”

”What!” cried St. Maurice, starting up in his chair.

”Fact, I a.s.sure you. Margharita told me that he was going to be troublesome, but I'd no idea that he was such a little spitfire. I landed two hours ago, and came straight here. I'd scarcely had a tub, and made myself decent, when in the little beggar walks, and kicks up no end of a row. I listened for a bit, and then told him to go to h.e.l.l. In five minutes he'd got the whole thing arranged, seconds and all.

To-morrow morning, at 6.30, on the sands, 'll see me a dead man, if he can use his tools as well as he can talk, little beast.”

”Briscoe, this is a horrible mess,” Lord St. Maurice declared emphatically. ”I don't know what you think of duels; I hate them.”

”It isn't duels I hate, it's the being spitted,” Briscoe answered gloomily. ”I can fence a bit, but it's always been with foils. I'm not used to swords, and I expect that fellow is a regular 'don' at it.

There's a sort of corpse-like look about him, anyway. Got any 'baccy, St. Maurice? Mine's so beastly dry.”

”Help yourself, old fellow. Who the devil's that?”

There was a knock at the door, and one of the servants of the hotel appeared. With some difficulty, for he was a native, and spoke French execrably, he explained that there were some gentlemen below who desired to speak with Lord St. Maurice.

The two men exchanged glances.

”My time has come, you see,” Lord St Maurice remarked grimly. ”Wait for me.”

In the deserted _salle a manger_ the French officer and one of the Palermitan gentlemen were talking together. The latter approached Lord St. Maurice and drew him on one side.

”I do not know how you may be situated here for friends, Lord St.