CHAPTER XXVII
THE FIGHT
Whilst Don Miguel was preparing for the fight, a slight sound suddenlycaused him to turn towards that side of the room, from whence a talloaken door led to his own and the Cardinal's apartments. His eyes,rendered peculiarly keen by the imminence of his own danger, quicklyperceived a thin fillet of artificial light running upwards from thefloor, which at once suggested to him that the door was slightly ajar.
It had certainly been closed when Wessex first entered the room. Behindit, as Don Miguel well knew, the Cardinal de Moreno had been watching;he was the great stage-manager of the drama which he had contrivedshould be enacted this night before His Grace. The young Marquis wasonly one of the chief actors; the principal actress being the wenchMirrab, who, surfeited with wine, impatient and violent, had been kept aclose prisoner by His Eminence these last six hours past.
That little glimmer of light dispelled Don Miguel's strange obsession.The Cardinal, with the slight opening of that door, had plainly meant toindicate that he was on the alert, and that this unrehearsed scene ofthe drama would not be enacted without his interference. The Duke, whohad his back to that portion of the room, had evidently seen and heardnothing, and the whole little episode had occurred in less than threeseconds.
Now Don Miguel was ready, and the next moment the swords clashedagainst one another. Eye to eye these two enemies seemed to gauge oneanother's strength. For a moment their daggers, held in the left hand,only acted as weapons of defence, the cloaks wrapped round their armswere still efficient sheaths.
Very soon the Spaniard realized that his original fears had not beenexaggerated. Wessex was a formidable opponent, absolutely calm, askilful fencer, and with a wrist which seemed made of steel. His attackwas quick and vigorous; step by step, slowly but unerringly, he forcedthe Marquis away from the stronghold of his position. Try how he might,parry how he could, the young Spaniard gradually found himself thrustmore and more into full light, whilst his antagonist was equallysteadily working his way round towards the more advantageous post.
No sound came from the Cardinal's apartments, and Don Miguel dared noteven glance towards the door, for the swiftest look would have provedhis undoing.
Wessex' face was like a mask, quite impassive, almost stony in its rigidexpression of perfect determination. The Spaniard was still steadilylosing ground, another few minutes and he would be in full light, whilstthe Duke's figure would become the deceptive silhouette. Under thoseconditions, and against such a perfect swordsman, the Marquis knew thathis doom was sealed. An icy sweat broke out from his forehead, he wouldhave bartered half his fortune to know what was going on behind thedoor.
For one awful moment the thought crossed his mind that His Eminenceperhaps had decreed his death at the hands of Wessex. Who knows? theways of diplomacy are oft tortuous and ever cruel; none knew that betterthan Don Miguel de Suarez himself. How oft had he callously exercisedthe right given him by virtue of some important mission entrusted tohim, in order to sweep ruthlessly aside the lesser pawns which stood inthe way of his success?
Had he become the lesser pawn now in this gigantic game of chess, inwhich the hand of a Queen was the final prize for the victor? Was hisdeath, at the hand of this man, of more importance to the success of theCardinal's intrigues than his life would be? If so, Heaven alone couldhelp him, for His Eminence would not hesitate to sacrifice himmercilessly.
The horror of these thoughts gave the young man the strength of despair.But he might just as well have tried to pierce a stone wall, as to breakthe _garde_ of this impassive and deadly opponent. His own wrist wasbeginning to tire; the combat had lasted nigh on a quarter of an hour,and the next few minutes would inevitably see its fatal issue. TheDuke's attacks became more swift and violent; once or twice already DonMiguel had all but felt His Grace's dagger at his throat.
Suddenly a piercing woman's shriek seemed to rend the air, the swiftsound of running footsteps, the grating of a heavy door on its hinges,and then there came another cry, more definite this time--
"Wessex, have a care!"
Both the men had paused, of course. Even in this supreme moment when onelife hung in the balance, how could they help turning towards thedistant corner of the room whence had come that piercing shriek.
The door leading to the Marquis' apartments was wide open now; a floodof light came from the room beyond, and against this sudden glare, whichseemed doubly brilliant to the dazed eyes of the combatants, thereappeared a woman's figure, dressed in long flowing robes of clingingwhite, her golden hair hanging in a wild tangle over her shoulders. Aquaint and weird figure! at first only a silhouette against a glowingbackground, but anon it came forward, disappeared completely for awhile in the dense shadow of an angle of the room, but the next momentemerged again in the full light of the moon, ghostlike and fantastic; agirlish form, her white draperies half falling from her shoulders,revealing a white throat and one naked breast; on her hair a few greenleaves, bacchante-like entwined and drooping, half hidden in the tangleof ruddy gold.
Wessex gazed on her, his sword dropped from his hand.
It was she! She, as a hellish vision had shown her to him half an hourago, in the great room wherein he had first kissed her: a weird andwitchlike creature, with eyes half veiled, and coarsened, sensuous lips.It was but a vision even now, for he could not see her very distinctly,his eyes were dazed with the play of the moonlight upon his sword, andshe, after her second cry, had drawn back into the shadow.
Don Miguel on the other hand had not seemed very surprised at herapparition, only somewhat vexed, as he exclaimed--
"Lady Ursula, I pray you . . ."
He placed his hand on her shoulder. It was the gesture of a master, andthe tone in which he spoke to her was one of command.
"I pray you go within," he added curtly; "this is no place for women."
Wessex' whole soul writhed at the words, the touch, the attitude of theman towards her; an hour ago, when he stood beside her, he would havebartered a kingdom for the joy of taking her hand.
She seemed dazed, and her form swayed strangely to and fro; suddenly sheappeared to be conscious of her garments, for with a certain shamedmovement of tardy modesty she pulled a part of her draperies over herbreast.
"I wish to speak with him," she whispered under her breath to DonMiguel.
But the Spaniard had no intention of prolonging this scene a secondlonger than was necessary. It had from the first been agreed between himand the Cardinal that the Duke should not obtain more than a glimpse atthe wench. At any moment, after the first shock of surprise, Wessexmight look more calmly, more steadily at the girl. She might begin tospeak, and her voice--the hoarse voice of a gutter-bred girl--wouldbetray the deception more quickly than anything else. The one briefvision had been all-sufficient: Don Miguel was satisfied. It had beenadmirably staged so far by the eminent manager who still remained out ofsight, it was for the young man now to play his role skilfully to theend.
"Come!" he said peremptorily.
He seized the girl's wrist, whispered a few words in her ear which neverreached her dull brain, and half led, half dragged her towards the door.
Wessex broke into a long, forced laugh, which expressed all thebitterness and anguish of his heart.
Oh! the humiliation of it all! Wessex suddenly felt that all his angerhad vanished. The whole thing was so contemptible, the banality of theepisode so low and degrading, that hatred fell away from him like amantle, leaving in his soul a sense of unutterable disgust and even ofabject ridicule. His pride alone was left to suffer. He who had alwaysheld himself disdainfully aloof from all the low intrigues inseparablefrom Court life, who had kept within his heart a reverent feeling ofchivalry and veneration for all women, whether queen or peasant,constant or fickle, for him to have sunk to this! one of a trio ofvulgar mountebanks, one of two aspirants for the favours of a wanton.
Of trickery, of deception, he had not one thought. How could he have?The events of the past hours had p
repared him for this scene, and he hadhad only a brief vision in semi-darkness, whilst everything had beencarefully prepared to blind him completely by this dastardly trick.
"By Our Lady," he said at last, with that same bitter, heartrendinglaugh, "the interruption was most opportune, and we must thank the LadyUrsula for her timely intervention. What! you and I, my lord, crossingswords for that?" and he pointed with a gesture of unutterable scorntowards the swaying figure of the woman. "A farce, my lord, a farce! Nota tragedy!"
He threw his dagger on to the floor and sheathed his sword, just as DonMiguel had succeeded in pushing the girl out of the room and closing thedoor on her.
The Spaniard began to stammer an apology.
"I pray you speak no more of it, my lord," said the Duke coldly, "'tis Iowe you an apology for interfering in what doth not concern me. As HisEminence very pertinently remarked just now, hospitality should forbidme to fly my hawk after your lordship's birds. My congratulations, mylord Marquis!" he added with a sneer. "Your taste, I perceive, isunerring. Good night and pleasant dreams."
He bowed lightly and turned to go.
Don Miguel watched him until his tall figure had disappeared behind thedoor. Then he sighed a deep sigh of satisfaction.
"An admirably enacted comedy," he mused; "a thousand congratulations toHis Eminence. Carramba! this is the best night's work we haveaccomplished since we trod this land of fogs."
The Tangled Skein Page 28