de Barthe. It is
murder.'
'Mademoiselle!' I exclaimed, wondering. 'Murder? Why? It is a
duel.'
'It is murder,' she answered persistently. 'You planned it last
night. You said so.'
'But I risk my own life,' I replied sharply.
'Nevertheless--I will have no part in it,' she answered more
faintly. She was trembling with agitation. Her eyes avoided
mine.
'On my shoulders be it then!' I replied stoutly. 'It is too
late, Mademoiselle, to go back. They are waiting for me. Only,
before I go, let me beg of you to retire.'
And I turned from her, and went out, wondering and thinking.
First, that women were strange things. Secondly--MURDER? Merely
because I had planned the duel and provoked the quarrel! Never
had I heard anything so preposterous. Grant it, and dub every
man who kept his honour with his hands a Cain--and a good many
branded faces would be seen in some streets. I laughed at the
fancy, as I strode down the garden walk.
And yet, perhaps, I was going to do a foolish thing. The
Lieutenant would still be here: a hard-bitten man, of stiffer
stuff than his Captain.
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