Part 25 (2/2)

”No; he is quite alone,” she answered.

Colden at once took on height, arrogance, and formidableness.

”Then why have not your servants made him a prisoner?” he asked.

”Why,” said she, ”you being mentioned to-night, in his presence, he made some kind of boast of not fearing you, and I, divining how soon you would be here, thought fit his freedom with your name should best be paid for at _your_ hands, major.”

”Ay, major,” put in Peyton, ”and I have stayed to receive payment!”

Colden thought for a short while. Then he said, ”A moment, Elizabeth.

Your pardon, Miss Williams,” and drew Elizabeth aside, and spoke to her in a low tone: ”We have only to temporize with him. Two of my men have attended me from my quarters. I had a better horse, and rode ahead, in my eagerness to see you. My two fellows will be here soon, and the business will be done.”

But such doing of the business did not suit Elizabeth's purpose. ”I wish to humiliate the man,” she answered Colden, inaudibly to the others; ”to take down his upstart pride! 'Twould be no shame to him, to be made prisoner by numbers.”

”What, then?” asked Colden, dubiously.

”Bring down the c.o.xcomb, before us women, in an even match!”

To prevent objections, she then abruptly went from Colden, and resumed her place at her aunt's side.

Colden stood frowning, not half pleased at her hint. It occurred to him, as it did not to her, that the mere allegiance and favoring wishes of herself were not sufficient possessions to ensure victory in such a match as she meant. Elizabeth, accustomed to success, did not conceive it possible that the chosen agent of her own designs could fail. But the chosen agent had, in this case, wider powers of conception.

All this time, Captain Peyton had stood as motionless as a figure in a painting. He now interrupted Colden's meditations with the gentle reminder:

”I am waiting for my payment, Major Colden.”

Colden was not a man of much originality. So, in his instinctive endeavor to gain time, he bungled out the conventional reply, ”You wish to seek a quarrel with me, sir?”

”Seek a quarrel?” retorted Peyton. ”Is not the quarrel here? Has not Miss Philipse spoken of an offence to your name, for which I ought to receive payment from you? Gad, she'd not have to speak twice to make _me_ draw!”

Colden continued to be as conventional as a virtuous hero of a novel.

”I do not fight in the presence of ladies, sir,” said he.

”Nor I,” said Peyton. ”Choose your own place, in the garden yonder.

With snow on the ground, there's light enough.”

And Harry went quickly, almost to the door, near which he stopped to give Colden precedence.

”Nay,” put in Elizabeth, ”we ladies can bear the sight of a sword-cut or two. Wait for us,” and she would have gone to send for wraps, but that Colden raised his hand in token of refusal, saying:

”Nay, Elizabeth. I will not consent.”

”Come, sir,” said Peyton. ”'Tis no use to oppose a lady's whim. But if you make haste, we may have it over before they can arrive on the ground.”

In handling his sword-hilt, Peyton had pulled the weapon a few inches out of the scabbard, and now, though he did not intend to draw while in the house, he unconsciously brought out the full length of what remained of the blade. For the time he had forgotten the sword was broken, and now he was reminded of it with some inward irritation.

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