ok to take the answer for yourself," said he.

Sir Terence looked, and laughed. He knew the sect of Ned Tremayne's
heart and could laugh now with relish at that which hitherto had left
him darkly suspicious.

"And who shall blame Lady O'Moy?" Count Samoval pursued. "A lady
so charming and so courted must seek her consolation for the almost
unnatural union Fate has imposed upon her. Captain Tremayne is of her
own age, convenient to her hand, and for an Englishman not ill-looking."

He smiled at O'Moy with insolent compassion, and O'Moy, losing all his
self-control, struck him slapped him resoundingly upon the cheek.

"Ye're a dirty liar, Samoval, a muck-rake," said he.

Samoval stepped back, breathing hard, one cheek red, the other white.
Yet by a miracle he still preserved his self-control.

"I have proved my courage too often," he said, "to be under the
necessity of killing you for this blow. Since my honour is safe I will
not take advantage of your overwrought condition."

"Ye'll take advantage of it whether ye like it or not," blazed Sir
Terence at him. "I mean you to take advantage of it. D' ye think I'll
suffer any man to cast a slur upon Lady O'Moy? I'll be sending my
friends to wait on you to-day, Count; and--by God!--Tremayne himself
shall be one of them."

Thus did the hot-headed fellow deliver himself into the hands of his
enemy. Nor was he warned when he saw the sudden gleam in Samoval's dark
eyes.

"Ha!" said the Count. It was a little exclamation of wicked
satisfaction. "You are offering me a challenge, then?"

"If I may make so bold. And as I've a mind to shoot you dead--"

"Shoot, did you say?" Samoval interrupted gently.

"I said 'shoot'--and it shall be at ten paces, or across a handkerchief,
or any damned distance you please."

The Count shook his head. He sneered. "I think not--not shoot." And he
waved the notion aside with a hand white and slender as a woman's. "That
is too English, or too Irish. The pistol, I mean--appropriately a fool's
weapon." And he explained himself, explained at last his extraordinary
forbearance under a blow. "If you think I have practised the small-sword
every day of my life for ten years to suffer myself to be shot at like
a rabbit in the end--ho, really!" He laughed aloud. "You have challenged
me, I think, Sir Terence. Because I feared the predilection you have
discovered, I was careful to wait until the challenge came from you. The
choice of weapons lies, I