I had not read Terence myself, but with the skilful audacity
of my race I calculated that a vague allusion, coupled with a
threat, would embarrass him. It did.
"Ah--what mean you?" he said, white with rage.
"Enough, we are observed," I replied; "Father Tom will wait on you
this evening; and to-morrow morning, my lord, in the glen below
Pilwiddle we will meet again."
"Father Tom--glen!" ejaculated the Englishman, with genuine
surprise. "What? do priests carry challenges and act as seconds in
your infernal country?"
"Yes!" I answered, scornfully, "why should they not? Their
services are more often necessary than those of a surgeon," I added
significantly, turning away.
The party slowly rode off, with the exception of the Hon. Blanche
Sackville, who lingered for a moment behind. In an instant I was
at her side. Bending her blushing face over the neck of her white
filly, she said hurriedly:--
"Words have passed between Lord Somerset and yourself. You are
about to fight. Don't deny it--but hear me. You will meet him--I
know your skill of weapons. He will be at your mercy. I entreat
you to spare his life!"
I hesitated. "Never!" I cried passionately; "he has insulted a
Denville!"
"Terence," she whispered, "Terence--FOR MY SAKE?"
The blood rushed to my cheeks, and her eyes sought the ground in
bashful confusion.
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