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 think, with me. I shall instruct my friends to ask for swords.”
“Sorry a difference will it make to me,” said Sir Terence. “Anything from a horsewhip to a howitzer.” And then recollection descending like a cold hand upon him chilled his hot rage, struck the fine Irish arrogance all out of him, and left him suddenly limp. “My God!” he said, and it was almost a groan. He detained Samoval, who had already turned to depart. “A moment, Count,” he cried. “I — I had forgotten. There is the general order — Lord Wellington’s enactment.”
“Awkward, of course,” said Samoval, who had never for a moment been oblivious of that enactment, and who had been carefully building upon it. “But you should have considered it before committing yourself so irrevocably.”
Sir Terence steadied himself. He recovered his truculence. “Irrevocable or not, it will just have to be revocable. The meeting’s impossible.”
“I do not see the impossibility. I am not surprised you should shelter yourself behind an enactment; but you will remember this enactment does not apply to me, who am not a soldier.”
“But it applies to me, who am not only a soldier, but the Adjutant-General here, the man chiefly responsible for seeing the order carried out. It would be a fine thing if I were the first to disregard it.”
“I am afraid it is too late. You have disregarded it already, sir.”
“How so?”
“The letter of the law is against sending or receiving a challenge, I think.”
O’Moy was distracted. “Samoval,” he said, drawing himself up, “I will admit that I have been a fool. I will apologise to you for the blow and for the word that accompanied it.”
“The apology would imply that my statement was a true one and that you recognised it. If you mean that—”
“I mean nothing of the kind. Damme! I’ve a mind to horsewhip you, and leave it at that. D’ ye think I want to face a firing party on your account?”
“I don’t think there is the remotest likelihood of any such contingency,” replied Samoval.
But O’Moy went headlong on. “And another thing. Where will I be finding a friend to meet your friends? Who will dare to act for me in view of that enactment?”
The Count considered. He was grave now. “Of course that is a difficulty,” he admitted, as if he perceived it now for the first time. “Under the circumstances, Sir Terence, and entirely to accommodate you, I might consent to dispense with seconds.”
“Dispense with seconds?” Sir Terence was horrified at the suggestion. “You know that that is irregular — that a charge of murder would lie against the survivor.”
“Oh, quite so. But it is for your own convenience that I suggest it, though I appreciate your considerate concern on the score of what may happen to me afterwards should it come to be known that I was your opponent.”
“Afterwards? After what?”
“After I have killed you.”
“And is it like that?” cried O’Moy, his countenance inflaming again, his mind casting all prudence to the winds.
It followed, of course, that without further thought for anything but the satisfaction of his rage Sir Terence became as wax in the hands of Samoval’s desires.
“Where do you suggest that we meet?” he asked.
“There is my place at Bispo. We should be private in the gardens there. As for time, the sooner the better, though for secrecy’s sake we had better meet at night. Shall we say at midnight?”
But Sir Terence would agree to none of this.
“To-night is out of the question for me. I have an engagement that will keep me until late. To-morrow night, if you will, I shall be at your service.” And because he did not trust Samoval he added, as Samoval himself had almost reckoned: “But I should prefer not to come to Bispo. I might be seen going or returning.”
“Since there are no such scruples on my side, I am ready to come to you here if you prefer it.”
“It would suit me better.”
“Then expect me promptly at midnight to-morrow, provided that you can arrange to admit me without my being seen. You will perceive my reasons.”
“Those gates will be closed,” said O’Moy, indicating the now gaping massive doors that closed the archway at night. “But if you knock I shall be waiting for you, and I will admit you by the wicket.”
“Excellent,” said Samoval suavely. “Then — until to-morrow night, General.” He bowed with almost extravagant submission, and turning walked sharply away, energy and suppleness in every line of his slight figure, leaving Sir Terence to the unpleasant, almost desperate, thoughts that reflection must usher in as his anger faded.
CHAPTER XII. THE DUEL
It was a time of stress and even of temptation for Sir Terence. Honour and pride demanded that he should keep the appointment made with Samoval; common sense urged him at all costs to avoid it. His frame of mind, you see, was not at all enviable. At moments he would consider his position as adjutant-general, the enactment against duelling, the irregularity of the meeting arranged, and, consequently, the danger in which he stood on every score; at others he could think of nothing but the unpardonable affront that had been offered him and the venomously insulting manner in which it had been offered, and his rage welled up to blot out every consideration other than that of punishing Samoval.
For two days and a night he was a sort of shuttlecock tossed between these alternating moods, and he was still the same when he paced the quadrangle with bowed head and hands clasped behind him awaiting Samoval at a few minutes before twelve of the following night. The windows that looked down from the four sides of that enclosed garden were all in darkness. The members of the household had withdrawn over an hour ago and were asleep by now. The official quarters were closed. The rising moon had just mounted above the eastern wing and its white light fell upon the upper half of the facade of the residential site. The quadrangle itself remained plunged in gloom.
Sir Terence, pacing there, was considering the only definite conc
lusion he had reached. If there were no way even now of avoiding this duel, at least it must remain secret. Therefore it could not take place here in the enclosed garden of his own quarters, as he had so rashly consented. It should be fought upon neutral ground, where the presence of the body of the slain would not call for explanations by the survivor.
From distant Lisbon on the still air came softly the chimes of midnight, and immediately there was a sharp rap upon the little door set in one of the massive gates that closed the archway.
Sir Terence went to open the wicket, and Samoval stepped quickly over the sill. He was wrapped in a dark cloak, a broad-brimmed hat obscured his face. Sir Terence closed the door again. The two men bowed to each other in silence, and as Samoval’s cloak fell open he produced a pair of duelling-swords swathed together in a skin of leather.
“You are very punctual, sir,” said O’Moy.
“I hope I shall never be so discourteous as to keep an opponent waiting. It is a thing of which I have never yet been guilty,” replied Samoval, with deadly smoothness in that reminder of his victorious past. He stepped forward and looked about the quadrangle. “I am afraid the moon will occasion us some delay,” he said. “It were perhaps better to wait some five or ten minutes, by then the light in here should have improved.”
“We can avoid the delay by stepping out into the open,” said Sir Terence. “Indeed it is what I had to suggest in any case. There are inconveniences here which you may have overlooked.”
But Samoval, who had purposes to serve of which this duel was but a preliminary, was of a very different mind.
“We are quite private here, your household being abed,” he answered, “whilst outside one can never be sure even at this hour of avoiding witnesses and interruption. Then, again, the turf is smooth as a table on that patch of lawn, and the ground well known to both of us; that, I can assure you, is a very necessary condition in the dark and one not to be found haphazard in the open.”
“But there is yet another consideration, sir. I prefer that we engage on neutral ground, so that the survivor shall not be called upon for explanations that might be demanded if we fought here.”
Even in the gloom Sir Terence caught the flash of Samoval’s white teeth as he smiled.
“You trouble yourself unnecessarily on my account,” was the smoothly ironic answer. “No one has seen me come, and no one is likely to see me depart.”
“You may be sure that no one shall, by God,” snapped O’Moy, stung by the sly insolence of the other’s assurance.
“Shall we get to work, then?” Samoval invited.
“If you’re set on dying here, I suppose I must be after humouring you, and make the best of it. As soon as you please, then.” O’Moy was very fierce.
They stepped to the patch of lawn in the middle of the quadrangle, and there Samoval threw off altogether his cloak and hat. He was closely dressed in black, which in that light rendered him almost invisible. Sir Terence, less practised and less calculating in these matters, wore an undress uniform, the red coat of which showed greyish. Samoval observed this rather with contempt than with satisfaction in the advantage it afforded him. Then he removed the swathing from the swords, and, crossing them, presented the hilts to Sir Terence. The adjutant took one and the Count retained the other, which he tested, thrashing the air with it so that it hummed like a whip. That done, however, he did not immediately fall on.
“In a few minutes the moon will be more obliging,” he suggested. “If you would prefer to wait—”
But it occurred to Sir Terence that in the gloom the advantage might lie slightly with himself, since the other’s superior sword-play would perhaps be partly neutralised. He cast a last look round at the dark windows.
“I find it light enough,” he answered.
Samoval’s reply was instantaneous. “On guard, then,” he cried, and on the words, without giving Sir Terence so much as time to comply with the invitation, he whirled his point straight and deadly at the greyish outline of his opponent’s body. But a ray of moonlight caught the blade and its livid flash gave Sir Terence warning of the thrust so treacherously delivered. He saved himself by leaping backwards — just saved himself with not an inch to spare — and threw up his blade to meet the thrust.
“Ye murderous villain,” he snarled under his breath, as steel ground on steel, and he flung forward to the attack.
But from the gloom came a little laugh to answer him, and his angry lunge was foiled by an enveloping movement that ended in a ripost. With that they settled down to it, Sir Terence in a rage upon which that assassin stroke had been fresh fuel; the Count cool and unhurried, delaying until the moonlight should have crept a little farther, so as to enable him to make quite sure that his stroke when delivered should be final.
Meanwhile he pressed Sir Terence towards the side where the moonlight would strike first, until they were fighting close under the windows of the residential wing, Sir Terence with his back to them, Samoval facing them. It was Fate that placed them so, the Fate that watched over Sir Terence even now when he felt his strength failing him, his sword arm turning to lead under the strain of an unwonted exercise. He knew himself beaten, realised the dexterous ease, the masterly economy of vigour and the deadly sureness of his opponent’s play. He knew that he was at the mercy of Samoval; he was even beginning to wonder why the Count should delay to make an end of a situation of which he was so completely master. And then, quite suddenly, even as he was returning thanks that he had taken the precaution of putting all his affairs in order, something happened.
A light showed; it flared up suddenly, to be as suddenly extinguished, and it had its source in the window of Lady O’Moy’s dressing-room, which Samoval was facing.
That flash drawing off the Count’s eyes for one instant, and leaving them blinded for another, had revealed him clearly at the same time to Sir Terence. Sir Terence’s blade darted in, driven by all that was left of his spent strength, and Samoval, his eyes unseeing, in that moment had fumbled widely and failed to find the other’s steel until he felt it sinking through his body, searing him from breast to back.
His arms sank to his sides quite nervelessly. He uttered a faint exclamation of astonishment, almost instantly interrupted by a cough. He swayed there a moment, the cough increasing until it choked him. Then, suddenly limp, he pitched forward upon his face, and lay clawing and twitching at Sir Terence’s feet.
Sir Terence himself, scarcely realising what had taken place, for the whole thing had happened within the time of a couple of heart-beats, stood quite still, amazed and awed, in a half-crouching attitude, looking down at the body of the fallen man. And then from above, ringing upon the deathly stillness, he caught a sibilant whisper:
“What was that? ‘Sh!”
He stepped back softly, and flattened himself instinctively against the wall; thence profoundly intrigued and vaguely alarmed on several scores he peered up at the windows of his wife’s room whence the sound had come, whence the sudden light had come which — as he now realised — had given him the victory in that unequal contest. Looking up at the balcony in whose shadow he stood concealed, he saw two figures there — his wife’s and another’s — and at the same time he caught sight of something black that dangled from the narrow balcony, and peered more closely to discover a rope ladder.
He felt his skin roughening, bristling like a dog’s; he was conscious of being cold from head to foot, as if the flow of his blood had been suddenly arrested; and a sense of sickness overcame him. And then to turn that horrible doubt of his into still more horrible certainty came a man’s voice, subdued, yet not so subdued but that he recognised it for Ned Tremayne’s.
“There’s some one lying there. I can make out the figure.”
“Don’t go down! For pity’s sake, come back. Come back and wait, Ned. If any one should come and find you we shall be ruined.”
Thus hoarsely whispering, vibrating with terror, the voice of his wife reached O’Moy, to confirm him
the unsuspecting blind cuckold that Samoval had dubbed him to his face, for which Samoval — warning the guilty pair with his last breath even as he had earlier so mockingly warned Sir Terence — had coughed up his soul on the turf of that enclosed garden.
Crouching there for a moment longer, a man bereft of movement and of reason, stood O’Moy, conscious only of pain, in an agony of mind and heart that at one and the same time froze his blood and drew the sweat from his brow.
Then he was for stepping out into the open, and, giving flow to the rage and surging violence that followed, calling down the man who had dishonoured him and slaying him there under the eyes of that trull who had brought him to this shame. But he controlled the impulse, or else Satan controlled it for him. That way, whispered the Tempter, was too straight and simple. He must think. He must have time to readjust his mind to the horrible circumstances so suddenly revealed.
Very soft and silently, keeping well within the shadow of the wall, he sidled to the door which he had left ajar. Soundlessly he pushed it open, passed in and as soundlessly closed it again. For a moment he stood leaning heavily against its timbers, his breath coming in short panting sobs. Then he steadied himself and turning, made his way down the corridor to the little study which had been fitted up for him in the residential wing, and where sometimes he worked at night. He had been writing there that evening ever since dinner, and he had quitted the room only to go to his assignation with Samoval, leaving the lamp burning on his open desk.
He opened the door, but before passing in he paused a moment, straining his ears to listen for sounds overhead. His eyes, glancing up and down, were arrested by a thin blade of light under a door at the end of the corridor. It was the door of the butler’s pantry, and the line of light announced that Mullins had not yet gone to bed. At once Sir Terence understood that, knowing him to be at work, the old servant had himself remained below in case his master should want anything before retiring.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 324