Part 38 (1/2)

”Come, then,” observed his smiling adversary, helping himself to a pinch of snuff with a languid air. ”If you _will_ have it so, your forest lair will be the best scene for your lesson. You will be more at home there; though, if you prefer it, nearer to your Manor, and within call of your servants----.”

”I am ready,” broke in Morice, sternly. ”Let it be where you will, and with what weapons you will, so it be at once.”

Lord Denningham did not hesitate.

”The forest, by all means, then,” he yawned. ”and pistols will be more appropriate than swords. Stap me! It's the first time I'll have been owl-shooting since I was a boy.”

Morice did not reply, though he strode quickly enough on the heels of the other as he led the way down the path, through the wicket, and across the heather-crowned strip of moorland towards the outskirts of the forest.

The cool breeze blowing in his face seemed to restore the young man to his senses. He was going to fight a duel with Lord Denningham.

Honour demanded it now.

But he was remembering tales which had often been the subject of Carlton House gossip--tales of this man's skill with the pistols, his unerring aim, his callous disregard of life.

”You are going to death, you are going to death,” moaned the autumn wind in his ear; and the voice seemed like the voice of Cecile crying its sad farewell.

Yet he could not go back; it was too late. If death awaited him, there in the grim forest, he must meet the grisly foe as a man, not a puling coward.

A man! Yes, a man whom Cecile, in years to come, might think of not wholly in shame, but with a great pity, as of one who, after many sins, many failures, many mistakes, had tried to redeem the past and expiate his faults--for her sake. If only he could have sent a message!

But that, too, was impossible.

”I think, with your permission, we have gone far enough,” observed Lord Denningham affably, as he halted near a small clearing in the wood.

Morice nodded.

He knew not if he had walked one mile or ten, so deep had been his reverie.

And now death stood at his side.

”It is a matter of regret that there is no time to procure seconds,”

smiled my lord, as he proceeded to divest himself of his coat and walk slowly across the clearing, carefully measuring his paces.

”But I do not think there will be any dispute--afterwards.”

”No,” replied Morice dully.

He understood the gist of the remark.

”The light might be worse,” went on Denningham. ”If we are careful where we stand,--so--there is too deep a shadow there. You have a good weapon, sir? If not, permit me to offer you the choice of mine.”

He opened a leather case as he spoke, holding it towards Morice with a mocking bow.

A pair of gold-mounted pistols lay within.

But Morice shook his head.

”I thank you, my lord, but I prefer using my own,” he replied shortly.