"You shall see for yourself, Signor!" he cried.

The Sicilian struggled, but he was like a child in the Englishman's
arms. He had caught him up in a vice-like grasp, and held him high over
the heads of the astonished onlookers. For a moment he seemed as though
he were going to throw him right out of the restaurant on to the Marina,
but at the last moment he changed his mind, and with a contemptuous
gesture set him down in the midst of them, breathless and choking.

"You can send your seconds as soon as you like," he said shortly.
"Good-evening, gentlemen."

They fell back before him like sheep, leaving a broad way right into the
hotel, through which he passed, stern and self-possessed. The Sicilian
watched him curiously, with twitching lips.

"There goes a brave man," whispered one of the Palermitans to the French
officer. "But his days are numbered."

The Frenchman gazed at the Sicilian and nodded. There was death in his
face.

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