Part 13 (1/2)

”If thou hast any friend to claim thy body, better write his name,”

said the man in the leather jerkin, as Effingston's blade touched his lightly, emitting a grating sound.

The only answer was a swift lunge, dexterously parried.

Not three blows were exchanged before Effingston realized that the man before him not only possessed the skill of one long used to sword play, but, further, combined with it the coolness and the keen eye of an old duelist. Moreover, the neutral tint of his adversary's dress offered but a poor mark by which to gauge his thrust, while his own costume, being ornamented with silver, gave his antagonist most effective guidance whereby to aim his strokes.

The other, also, came to the conclusion that no mere novice stood before him, for Effingston had turned every thrust with an ease which surprised him; and several times his sword had crept so closely to the leather jerkin that three or four brown furrows had appeared upon it.

”Enough of this child's play,” Effingston's antagonist hissed between his teeth, making another furious lunge. The impetus given to the thrust would have sent the blade to the hilt into the other's body had it come in contact with it, but Effingston met the blow in a way least expected, making use of a trick but little known in England at that time, for as quickly as the sword flew forward he stepped lightly aside, at the same time advancing his own weapon. The hilts came together with a crash; the guard of one was entangled in the bell of the other, and the two rapiers remained firmly interlocked. The men now stood so closely that their b.r.e.a.s.t.s touched, the breath issuing from their parted lips mingling in clouds. Suddenly, almost simultaneously, as if one read the intent in the other's eye, each slowly moved his left arm to his side, seeking the dagger he knew hung there. Again, on the same instant, the knives flashed forth; the men sprang quickly apart; the two rapiers went spinning on the roadway, and with a clatter, became disentangled as they fell. No time for breath; each knows it is to the death, and plenty of rest awaits one or both, perchance, in a few moments. The men leaped toward each other; a confused struggle ensued. Fawkes from his post could illy make out who had the advantage. Suddenly, Effingston's foot slipped, he was almost upon his knees--the man was upon him, one hand gripped his shoulder, forcing him to the ground, the other held the knife lifted high to add force to the blow; but that coveted strength cost him his life, for before the hand could descend, Effingston quickly raised his dagger, and drove it with all his might up to the guard in the neck left unprotected by his adversary's movement. The man clutched at the figure before him, the blade flew from his grasp and he dropped with a bubbling cry to the earth, the blood spurting from him as he fell.

”Marry!” exclaimed Fawkes, who through all the contest had been craning his neck and breathing hard with excitement, ”that was a brave device but not one which I should care to try myself. By the Apostle Paul!” added he in surprise on hearing the bell of a distant church strike the hour, ”it is three o'clock, and here am I watching two gentlemen, whose faces I cannot even see, settle a little difficulty about a woman. But 'twas a l.u.s.ty fight, and for the moment made me forget the errand which called me forth.” Saying which and with another glance down the road, he started upon his way.

The victor stood regarding his foe, who made one or two convulsive movements as if to arise, but fell back with the blood spouting from the wound and out his mouth. One more struggling effort he makes, but 'tis the last; with a violent convulsion of his whole body the man in the leather jerkin sinks to the earth to rise no more.

Effingston turned to the second figure lying upon the roadway, and as he gazed upon her, there was expressed on his countenance a certain degree of contempt, but, withal, a love which pride and resolution could not quite kill. As she lies there, the white face touched by the light of the moon, it is like looking upon the dead.

”O G.o.d,” he whispered, as he suddenly knelt beside her, taking one of the white hands within his own, ”would that she had died before--before----” He slowly raised the girl in his arms; then convulsively pressed the light figure to him, and letting his head sink upon her breast, sobbed as only a strong man can.

Again there was silence, broken only by the rattle of ice-covered twigs swept from the trees by the restless night wind. After a moment he regained composure and fell to chafing her hands.

A slight motion showed him the girl was slowly recovering from her long swoon. Gradually consciousness returned, and lifting her head from the cloak he had placed beneath it, she looked about in a confused way as though unable to make out her surroundings. Soon her gaze rested upon Effingston, who had drawn a little apart. Raising herself, she tottered toward him, and would have fallen had he not put an arm out to prevent her.

”What could have made thee treat me so?” she whispered, pa.s.sing a hand across her face, as if endeavoring to brush away that which hindered her thoughts. ”Have I not suffered enough?” she continued, piteously.

”I was not thy a.s.sailant,” answered Effingston, motioning to the figure on the road; ”there he lieth; thou canst go thy way in peace.”

The girl glanced in the direction and shuddered. ”And how came this about?” she questioned, in a dreamy tone, casting a frightened look at the thing in the path. ”Oh, now I do recollect me,” added she, softly, as though to herself, seemingly oblivious of her surroundings. ”I had left Sir Winter, and deeming myself quite safe, was hurrying home, when--for truth, I can remember no more until I found thee near me.”

She ceased and looked up into his face with an innocent smile.

Evidently the terrible strain to which her mind had been subjected effaced from it all previous impressions, or left only an indistinct recollection of what had transpired. ”It was brave of thee,” she murmured, in the same dreamy tone, placing her hand upon his arm.

At the name of Winter, Effingston drew back. Had she not by those unguarded words confirmed her guilt? All his pride and anger returned.

The resolutions which had but a moment since departed, banished by that helpless figure in the moonlight, now came again with greater strength. Of what weakness, he asked himself, had he been guilty? Of kissing the lips not yet cold from the caresses of him who had defiled them.

”Very--brave--in--thee,” the girl repeated, in a dull monotone.

Effingston glanced at her, but that piteously bewildered face cannot move him, and he coldly answered:

”'Tis the duty of every gentleman to protect the life of a woman, even though her shame be public talk.”

Evidently the girl had not heard, or at least the words made no impression upon her brain, for she nestled closely to him like a frightened child seeking protection.

”Come,” he whispered. She obeyed without a word. They pa.s.sed upon their way in silence and at last reached her dwelling. Effingston opened the door which stood unbarred, and a.s.sisted her to enter. He turned to go, not trusting himself to speak.

”Thou wert not always accustomed to leave me thus,” exclaimed the girl, in a voice dest.i.tute of expression. ”See,” she continued, ”I will kiss thee even without thy asking,” and before the man realized her intent, she threw her arms about him and pressed her lips to his.

”They are cold,” she murmured, with a s.h.i.+ver. ”But the night is chilly--look! now the east is streaked with red.” Turning, she pointed to the sky, dyed with the crimson light of coming day. The ruddy glow crept up, touching the girl and turning the snow at her feet to the color of the rose.

”Come to me, dear heart,” she whispered, holding out her arms; ”take me to thee, that on thy breast I may find a sweet and dreamless sleep.”