The Corsican Lovers

“It would give me additional pleasure, my dear Lieutenant, if you, also, would accept the hospitality of my house.”

The Lieutenant thanked him and said that, if it was the Admiral’s wish and that of his daughter, he would be pleased to accept. The two gentlemen parted with mutual expressions of esteem and regard, although their acquaintance had been of very short duration, but such expressions are a part of the social code, and may mean more or less, as the case may be.

As the Lieutenant left the house, he stopped to survey the magnificent grounds which surrounded the mansion. As he walked slowly towards the gate, outside of which he had tied his horse, his ear caught the sound of running water. He paused at the entrance of a path which led through a grove of trees with overhanging, interlaced branches, forming a cool retreat. He entered, and, as he advanced, the sound grew louder and louder. At the end of the path he came to a sudden stop, gazing with admiration at the picture before him.

The sound of running water had come from a little brook which, at the end of the path, fell over a rocky ledge some six feet high, forming a small waterfall. The bright rays of the sun fell upon the drops of water as they descended, giving them the appearance of a shower of diamonds. But it was not this natural beauty by which the young man’s gaze was transfixed. Kneeling at the foot of the waterfall, a basket of freshly plucked flowers beside her, was the most beautiful girl whom he had ever seen. Her hair and eyes were black, while her skin had that peculiar tint found only among the women of the southern nations of Europe. She was young, not more than eighteen, and, as she knelt beside the brook, dipping first one hand and then the other in the water, and sprinkling the flowers, she formed a picture of beauty and grace sure to appeal to an impressionable young man like Lieutenant Victor Duquesne. She had not heard the young man approach, and kept on with her task, unmindful of his presence.

Her heart must have been full of happiness that morning, for she began to sing, and the Lieutenant was sure that he had never heard a voice of such purity and sweetness. He did not know what to do next, so he simply stood still gazing with unfeigned pleasure upon the lovely girl before him. Suddenly she looked up and their eyes met. She started to her feet, with a slight cry, and then the rich blood mounted to her cheeks, tinging them a deep red. She did not speak but her eyes asked the question, plainly:

“Who are you and what are you doing here?”

Lieutenant Duquesne divined their meaning and, bowing low, said: “I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, but I have just come from Monsieur Pascal Batistelli, whom I visited with a message from my superior officer, when I heard the sound of running water and, unconscious that I was guilty of an impropriety, I came down this path to learn the cause.”

“And you have seen my brother?” the young girl asked.

“I have seen Monsieur Pascal Batistelli,” was the reply. “Are you a daughter of the house?”

The young girl dropped the large black eyes which, up to this time, had looked frankly into his.

“I am the only daughter,” she said. “I am Vivienne Batistelli. I have two brothers, Pascal and Julien, but Julien is not at home. He went away yesterday and has not come back.”

“I regret that I did not meet him,” said the Lieutenant, politely, “but I trust that I may yet have that pleasure. Those are beautiful flowers which you have gathered, and the pure water that you have sprinkled upon them has given them an added loveliness. May I ask a favour?”

The young girl looked up and smiled. “If not too great a one,” she said.

“To grant it,” and the young man bowed low, “will rob you of but one of those beautiful flowers. I should like to take it with me as a souvenir of this unexpected but very pleasant meeting.”

“I surely shall not feel the loss of one little flower,” said she, as she took a white rose from the basket, “and I am pleased to give it to you if it will afford you as much pleasure as you say it will.”

He took the flower.

“Pardon, monsieur, but I must return to the house, or my flowers will wilt in the hot sun despite the cool bath which I have given them.”

Lieutenant Duquesne stepped to one side, thinking that she would go by way of the path and would have to pass him, but she turned in an opposite direction and quickly disappeared from sight. The Lieutenant left the path and, reaching the brook, stood upon the same place where she had knelt. As he did so, he saw her slight form disappear beneath a vine-covered arbour a short distance away. A thought came into his mind and, unconsciously, found expression in words:

“She is beautiful,” and he started at the sound of his own voice; “she is the most beautiful girl I ever saw. To see her is to love her!”

He retraced his steps and entered the path again when, to his surprise, he came face to face with a young man of about his own age, dressed in the height of Parisian fashion, who stood regarding him with an angry frown upon his face.

It was the young Count Napier Mont d’Oro.

CHAPTER XIV.

A FLOWER WITH BLOOD-STAINED PETALS.

Count Napier Mont d’Oro’s experience had not been very pleasant before his meeting with Lieutenant Duquesne. Learning from one of the servants that his mother had gone to pay a visit to a tenant who was ill, he made his way at once to her boudoir. Upon entering he found Bertha seated, gazing abstractedly at the letter which she had just finished reading.

“Ah! My good mother is not here. I wished to speak to her. I suppose she will return soon. Pardon me, if I wait,” and he sank into a chair. “This is a beautiful morning, is it not, mademoiselle? And how do you like Corsica?”

“I have seen very little of it,” was the reply. “I have not been out of the house since my arrival, except to take a walk in the grounds.”

“Ah! That is a shame!” cried the Count, sympathetically. “Will you not go driving with me this morning? Our scenery is beautiful because it is so natural. The hand of art has not tampered with it as it has in France.”

“You are very kind, Count Mont d’Oro,” Bertha replied, “but your mother said she would order the carriage this afternoon.”

“Ah, yes,” said the Count. “I know she is afraid of a spirited horse, and old Pierre will drive you, with a pair of horses almost as old as he is. I have a high-stepper in the stables, a spirited beast that curvets, prances, and amuses you with his antics.”

“I think,” replied Bertha, “for carriage driving I should prefer the quieter animals. I am not afraid when I am on horseback, but really I must decline your invitation. There are reasons——” She hesitated. The Count drew his chair closer to her.

“And what are the reasons, do you suppose, that have caused me to give up my pleasant life in Paris and come down here to this humdrum place?”

Bertha felt piqued by his persistency. “To see your lady-love, I suppose,” she said.

“To see a lady-love, yes. Do you know her name?”

“Mademoiselle Vivienne Batistelli, I presume,” replied Bertha, with a tone of restraint in her voice.

The Count laughed. “She is one of them. I suppose you may have heard that she is my prospective bride. But a Corsican falls in love many times before he weds.”

“I am not used to the ways of your country,” said Bertha, “and, for that reason, I cannot fully appreciate what you have just said.”

“But I know a great deal about your country,” rejoined the Count. “I had the pleasure of coming from Marseilles to Ajaccio on the same vessel with a true friend of yours.”

Bertha started and her cheeks flushed. Whom could he mean but Jack? He was only teasing her after all. She must be more gracious. She turned a smiling face towards the Count and said:

“I have so few friends in Corsica I should be pleased to learn that I have one more. When may I expect to see him?”

“Well,” replied the Count, “he is not coming here until I tell him that you are ready to receive him. He has promised to be guided by me in the matter.”

“That is strange. I do not understand you.”

“Well, you will when I tell you who he is.”

Bertha was in a quandary. What could it mean? Who would make a promise to Count Mont d’Oro that he would not come to see her except with the Count’s permission? It must be Jack—and yet, she hesitated to mention his name.

The Count thought the time had come to relieve her suspense.

“My companion,” he said, “was your guardian, Mr. Thomas Glynne.”

Bertha started to her feet. The smile faded from her face and a look of apprehension, almost terror, succeeded it.

“But you will not tell him where I am?” she cried, appealingly.

“Oh, he knows where you are,” replied the Count, “but I imagined from what I heard that you were not very desirous of seeing him, so I made him promise that he would not come here until I told him he might.”

“That was very good of you, Count. I do not wish to see him. You will do all you can to keep him away from here, won’t you?”

“Well, that depends,” said the Count. “I do not think I should enjoy your society if he were here, and, if there is any prospect of our passing some pleasant days together, you may be sure that he will not hear from me while they last.”

Bertha divined his purpose and her proud spirit rebelled at the virtual threat. So this young man proposed to force himself upon her and to oblige her to endure his society. If she did not comply, then he intended to send for her guardian. Whatever slight feeling of respect she may have had for him vanished at once. No wonder that his mother hated him. What a mean-spirited young man he was! But what could she do? Then the thought came to her that Jack was coming to Corsica. Perhaps he had already arrived and would soon be there to protect her. She turned to the Count.

“It makes little difference to me, Count Mont d’Oro,” she said, “whether my guardian comes here or not. I have other friends upon whose protection I can rely.”

“I know whom you mean,” said the Count, “but he will not come. You are thinking of Monsieur De Vinne. Your guardian expected to break the sad news to you himself, but as he is not here I will tell you what he told me. Your young friend, Monsieur De Vinne, was, unfortunately, killed in a fight which took place between a Frenchman and an Englishman.”

There was a look of scorn upon Bertha’s face and a withering tone of disdain in her voice when she spoke. “Count Mont d’Oro, what you have just told me is a falsehood. I know that it is not true. I have a letter from Mrs. Glynne in which she tells me that Mr. De Vinne expressed his intention of starting for Corsica at once. If he has not already arrived, he will be here very soon. I do not understand what your motive has been in telling me such untruths. I do not believe that my guardian is here or that he has made you any such promise as you say he has. While I remain in your mother’s care, which I trust will not be for long, I will try to be civil to you, but I do not care to have any further conversation with you upon any subject whatever.”

As she uttered the last words the door opened and Countess Mont d’Oro entered. She took in the situation at a glance. Her son, as usual, was making himself disagreeable. She had heard Bertha’s closing words and her womanly intuition supplied the rest of the story.

“Napier,” she said, “your presence here, as I have told you many times, is unwelcome to me, and I know that it must be to Mademoiselle Renville, from what I have just heard. If you insist upon remaining, it must be in your own apartments. I will see that your meals are sent to you. Come, mademoiselle.”

She took Bertha’s arm and the two women left the room.

The Count stepped out upon the terrace. The hunt was up. He had been beaten at his own game. What a fool he had been to say anything about De Vinne. He had gone too far, had said too much, and had lost all. Well, there were plenty of pretty women in the world, but this fair, young Miss Renville was so different from the others. The case was not hopeless, after all. De Vinne had not arrived, and the guardian had. He would see the guardian and put him on the watch. Some plan could be formed, no doubt, by which the lovers could be kept apart.

He descended the long flight of steps and walked towards the gateway. A horse was fastened to a tree just outside. To whom could it belong? Perhaps young De Vinne had arrived, his mother knew it, and had taken Madamoiselle Renville to meet him. Hearing voices, he glanced down a wooded path and saw a young man in naval uniform, and—he was speaking to a young lady. Who could it be? A few quick strides down the path and he saw that it was Vivienne Batistelli.

Now, Count Mont d’Oro knew in his heart that he did not really love Vivienne, but the mutual wish of his father and her brother had been carried out so far as he was able, and he reasoned that she had no right to love anybody else and no one else had any right to love her. Victor’s words—“To see her is to love her”—rang in his ears. Had matters, then, gone so far as that? A moment later the two young men stood face to face.

“What right have you to that flower?” demanded the Count, his voice choked with passion.

“The right of possession,” said Victor, quietly; “but what right have you to ask such a question?”

“I am Count Napier Mont d’Oro, of Alfieri,” was the reply.

“Such extreme confidence merits reciprocity,” said Victor. “I am Lieutenant Victor Duquesne of His Britannic Majesty’s ship Osprey, now lying at anchor in the harbour of Ajaccio.”

“Where did you get that flower?” cried the Count, at the top of his voice, his feelings evidently becoming ungovernable.

“It was given to me by a young lady. She said her name was Vivienne Batistelli.”

“Do you know who she is?”

“I only know,” said Victor, “that she is beautiful in person and charming in her manners. I may have been presumptuous in asking for the flower, but she certainly excused it or she would not have given it to me. Are you well acquainted with her?” and Victor calmly regarded the angry face of the Count.

“She is to be the future Countess Mont d’Oro,” was the reply. “She is betrothed to me and has no right to give flowers or any other token to an absolute stranger. Give me that flower.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort,” said Victor. “If the young lady who was so kind as to bestow it upon me asks for its return, I will give it to her, but nothing shall force me to give it to you.”

“We will see about that,” cried the Count, and before Victor had divined his intention, the enraged man drew his stiletto and made a thrust at him. Victor threw up his left hand to ward off the thrust, receiving a severe cut which bled freely.

Physically, Victor was much more than a match for the Count. Grasping the latter’s wrist, he bent his right hand backward until the fingers loosed their hold upon the stiletto and it fell to the ground. Victor gave the weapon a vigorous kick, and it disappeared from sight in a clump of bushes. He next gave the Count a push backward, crying as he did so:

“Now, let me pass!”

But the Count had reached that stage where ungovernable fury takes the place of reason. He aimed a blow with his fist at Victor, which the latter parried, while with his right hand, which was tightly clenched, he struck the Count fairly between the eyes and felled him to the ground.

In the struggle the white rose, which had been the cause of contention, had fallen upon the ground. Victor picked it up, and as he did so he noticed that its former white petals were now blood-stained. Her flower and his blood! He unbuttoned his coat, placed the rose over his heart, and then buttoned the garment again.

Casting a contemptuous look at his late antagonist, who seemed to be recovering consciousness, he retraced his steps through the wooded path, vaulted over the low gate, mounted his horse, and rode at a rapid rate towards Ajaccio.

CHAPTER XV.

A DUEL IN THE DARK.

“Your remark, Lieutenant Duquesne,” said Miss Enright, with a frown which added to the classic severity of her features, “is entirely irrelevant. Do you wish me to proceed, or shall we stop at the drawbridge?”

“By no means, Miss Enright. Do not leave us upon the drawbridge or we may fall into the hands of the enemy, and I do not care to become a prisoner.”

“They did not take prisoners in those days,” said Miss Enright. “Dead enemies cost nothing for the keeping. Besides, what they had on them became lawful booty. They had not learned in those days our expensive manner of carrying on warfare.”

“Then so much the more reason,” said Victor, “why you should point out some means of escape from that drawbridge.”

“Then,” said Miss Enright, “come within the castle and we will let the portcullis fall. Allow me to explain that the portcullis was a heavy wooden gate or door, made of double timbers securely bolted together. It was impervious to culverins, and it took a ponderous stone from a catapult to shatter it.”

“Thank you, Miss Enright,” said Victor. “Now that we are within the castle, with the drawbridge up and the portcullis down, I beg you to let them remain where they are.”

“Your experiences this morning, Lieutenant Duquesne, have made you flippant, and you know I have told you many times that I cannot endure useless levity in a man—especially a young one. So with your kind permission, and that of my honoured father, I will retire to my own room.”

“Yes, go, Helen,” said the Admiral, “and I will give him a good talking to when you are gone. I am half inclined to cashier him and dismiss him from the service.”

“Oh, do not do that,” said Miss Enright, her features relaxing into a smile in spite of her attempts to retain her stern composure. “You know the Lieutenant and I are sworn enemies and have been since we left Malta, where we disagreed as to the sentiments which inspired the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem. Besides, his crime is one that calls for education rather than condign punishment.”

After throwing this Parthian arrow, she left the room.

“Why do you like to plague Helen so?” asked the Admiral.

“I don’t enjoy the plaguing part, but my jibes always stir her up, and I cannot but admire the manner in which she conducts both attack and defence.”

“I have given her all the education she asked for,” said the Admiral, “but I sometimes wonder what would become of the world if all the women in it knew as much as Helen does.”

“I don’t think that day will ever come,” said Victor. “If it does, women will become the teachers and men the students.”

“But will they ever learn to command a frigate?” asked the Admiral.

“If women ever rule the world,” replied Victor, “there will be no need of either frigates, or armies, or wars. All vexed questions will be settled by diplomacy, and no male diplomat can hope to compete successfully with a woman in that line of business.”

“What kind of a place is it that Batistelli lives in?” asked the Admiral.

“Oh,” said Victor, “it is a big stone house with a large tower at each end. The grounds are beautiful, but the interior of the house looks cheerless from our English point of view. It lacks that cosey, comfortable air which English homes have. But Monsieur Batistelli was very polite, and evinced a most hospitable disposition. I have no doubt that Miss Enright and yourself will greatly enjoy a week’s sojourn there.”

“I hope so,” said the Admiral. “We will go to-morrow. I am greatly obliged to you, Lieutenant, and you may have your freedom until our return.”

Victor knew that, so far as the Admiral was concerned, the interview was at an end.

“My dear Admiral,” said he, “may I trespass on your time for a few minutes?”

“Why, certainly,” was the reply. “I have nothing to do until dinner time, and there is a spare half hour.”

“It will not take that length of time,” said Victor. “Monsieur Batistelli extended a very polite invitation to me to become his guest, also, but I cannot accept—so do not speak of it to your daughter.”

“And why not?” cried the Admiral. “Helen and I would be delighted to have you with us. I know you two quarrel, but I think you both enjoy it. I always thought that when I am not around you make up, but, as soon as I appear upon the scene, you feel obliged to begin your warfare again.”

“You are not far from the truth, my dear Admiral,” said Victor. “I should be happy to form one of your party were it not for a little affair, in which I became involved this morning, that must claim preference.”

“An affair?” cried the Admiral; “not a love affair, I hope!”

“Oh, no!” said Victor, “something much more serious—an affair of honour!”

He then told the Admiral of his meeting with Vivienne Batistelli and his subsequent encounter with Count Mont d’Oro.

“These Corsicans are a hot-blooded race, and he will surely send me a challenge. I shall be obliged to meet him or he will hold me up as a coward. I must secure some one to serve as second. Have I your permission, Admiral, to ask one of my brother officers to act in that capacity?”

The Admiral leaned back in his chair and seemed to be considering the question from several points of view.

“I should say nothing about it on board ship,” he began. “Perhaps, after all, you will not hear from him. If the matter becomes known to any one on the vessel, all will know it; some will write home to England about it, and it may reach the Admiralty. You do not wish that to occur, for it would certainly retard your promotion. If the worst comes to the worst and the fellow challenges you, I will act for you and no one on the vessel will be the wiser.”

At dinner both the Admiral and Victor were disposed to be contemplative, each thinking of the prospective duel and its possible results. Victor was also greatly disturbed at not seeing or hearing from Jack. He had made diligent inquiries, but without success. He therefore contented himself with the thought that Jack was pursuing his quest of Cromillian, or Bertha, or both.

After a long silence, Helen, who knew nothing of the impending conflict, started a little battle on her own account by referring again to mediæval customs.

“I yearn,” said she, “for a return to the days of chivalry, when brave knights fought for their lady-loves. To me, there can be no sight more inspiring than two brave men contending for the favour of some fair maiden worthy of their love.”

“Perhaps the days of chivalry may return once more,” said Victor.

“Nonsense!” cried Helen. “In these days, there are few men brave enough to face each other in mortal combat. They are content to fire at each other with an intervening distance of half a mile or more. Why don’t they do as did Julius Cæsar and his Roman warriors—advance with drawn swords and fall boldly upon their enemies? It was daring, and muscle, and swordsmanship that won battles in those days.”

“And now it is markmanship,” said Victor. “You know the old saying, Miss Enright, that times change and we change with them. If we were Roman warriors, and time could be pushed back nearly eighteen hundred years, your sanguinary wishes might be gratified; but, as things look now, the range of arms will increase, and armies and vessels will stay farther apart than ever during the progress of a battle.”

“One reason why I have wished to come to Corsica,” said Helen, “is to learn about the vendetta. The spirit of the old knights must survive in this island.”

“Not at all!” cried the Admiral, taking part for the first time in the discussion. “The miserable rascals dare not meet each other in a fair fight, but lie in ambush and brutally assassinate their enemies. I am surprised, Helen, that you should entertain such sentiments.”

“You do not understand me, father,” said Helen. “What I wish to see is individual bravery rather than collective heroism. I do not wish to applaud a whole regiment or the entire crew of a frigate, but the one man who, by his valiant prowess, has shown himself worthy of renown.”

The dinner was over and the discussion also came to an end. Victor lighted a cigar and went out upon the veranda to think over the matter which was uppermost in his mind. Being very far-sighted, he espied, a long distance off, an old building which had a deserted, tumble-down appearance. He left the veranda and walked towards it, finding it much farther away than he had anticipated.

He opened the door and entered. It was empty. It was, in reality, a large shed which probably had been used as a storehouse. He closed the door and found himself in utter darkness. Although the building was old, it was surely well constructed, for there was not a seam or break in it through which the light of the sun could enter. He threw the door open and carefully surveyed the interior once more. Across each corner of the structure, some six feet from the ground, four heavy joists were placed, but for what purpose Victor could not divine. As he stood there, a strange thought came into his mind, and he smiled to himself with inward satisfaction.

On his way back to the hotel, he passed a cottage, in front of which, seated at a grindstone, a man, evidently a woodsman, was sharpening a number of axes. Victor stopped and regarded him. Then, he smiled again. What he saw evidently pleased him and there must have been some connection between the smile in the old shed and that which showed upon his face as he stood regarding the woodsman and the implements of his trade.

“My good friend,” said Victor, “will you sell me a couple of those axes—the sharpened ones, I mean?”

“You can buy plenty of them in the town,” the man replied.

“How much would two cost me?” asked Victor.

The man named the price.

“I will give you twice as much for two of yours,” said Victor, and the bargain was soon concluded.

The man found a piece of old cloth in which Victor could wrap up his purchases, and he succeeded in reaching his room without his burden meeting the eye of the inquisitive. Then he sought the Admiral and had a short talk with him.

“Why, bless my soul!” cried Sir Gilbert, “I never heard of such a thing before. It is a most re-mark-a-ble idea. I suppose what Helen said at dinner put you up to it. What fools women can make of men, to be sure. Of course, I mean nothing personal by that, my dear Lieutenant, but I have read history, or rather Helen has read it to me, and it seems to me as though most of the silly things that men have done have been prompted by a desire to please some woman.”

Victor was right when he expressed the opinion that Count Mont d’Oro would challenge him. The next morning the card of M. François Villefort was sent up to his room, and, when the young man had exchanged the customary courtesies with Lieutenant Duquesne, he stated that the object of his visit was to present a message from his lifelong friend, Count Napier Mont d’Oro. Victor bowed, said that he had anticipated receiving such a civility from the Count, and asked him to accompany him to the room of his friend, Admiral Enright, who had consented to act as his second.

When M. Villefort and Admiral Enright were alone, the Admiral began the conversation.

“In my country,” said he, “the first duty of a gentleman called upon to act in the capacity which we have assumed is to arrange, if possible, an honourable compromise.”

“In Corsica,” replied M. Villefort, “that matter is never considered. In fact, as you probably well know, Corsicans never fight duels in Corsica, but Count Mont d’Oro has lived for some time in Paris and, assuming that Lieutenant Duquesne is conversant with the French code duello, the Count has the courtesy to follow the French custom.”

“Well,” said the Admiral, “then we will consider that part of the subject closed. My friend, Lieutenant Duquesne, being the challenged party, has the choice of time, place, and weapons. I conferred with him upon the subject previous to your expected arrival, and there will, consequently, be no delay in arranging the preliminaries.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” said M. Villefort, “for my friend, Count Mont d’Oro, is anxious that the insult given to him should be avenged as soon as possible.”

“On our part,” said the Admiral, “we shall be delighted to accommodate you. The time fixed upon is midnight, to-morrow night; the place, a vacant shed which is in plain sight from the veranda of the hotel, about three-quarters of a mile distant; the weapons, woodsmen’s axes, sharpened by a Corsican; the contest to last five minutes, and in total darkness. At the end of that time, you and I are to enter the building with lights and see what remains of our friends.”

“Allow me to say that I consider such levity unbecoming a gentleman. If your principal has given you instructions suited to an affair of honour, I am here to receive them.”

“Exactly! I don’t know what your customs are here, but in England we do not repeat our conditions more than once.”

The Corsican was evidently impressed by the bluntness and directness of the Englishman’s speech.

“Pardon me,” said he, “but I did not understand what weapons had been selected by the challenged party.”

“I thought I described them sufficiently,” said the Admiral. “I said axes,—ordinary common woodsmen’s axes—the sharper the better.”

“And the place?” queried M. Villefort.

“If you will step to the window,” said the Admiral, “I will show you. Do you see that old shed on the lefthand side of the road? That is the place selected by Lieutenant Duquesne. Time, midnight to-morrow night, the room to be in utter darkness, and the fight to last five minutes. Do I make myself understood?”

“Perfectly, monsieur,” responded M. Villefort, “but I doubt very much if the Count will condescend to accept such ridiculous terms. Did you say that the room was to be dark?”

“Yes,” replied the Admiral; “the Lieutenant says the windows are boarded up tightly and not a ray of light enters even in the daytime. I confess that they are the most re-mark-a-ble instructions I ever received. They quite stagger me, they do, indeed. But my principal says he will not change them.”

“I will report the result of my mission to Count Mont d’Oro. If he refuses to accept the terms——”

The Admiral broke in: “Why, then we will let the matter drop just where it is; but Lieutenant Duquesne and myself will probably form an opinion as to the bravery of this member of the Corsican nobility, and we may express it to others. You might repeat to the Count what I have just said.”

Miss Helen Enright was both astute and acute. Her father knew that, if he left the hotel late in the evening and did not return until after midnight, he would be obliged to make some sort of an explanation to his daughter.

“Better tell a white lie than a black one,” said he to Victor. So it was arranged that they should pay a visit to the Osprey in the afternoon, giving Helen to understand that they might not return to the hotel until the next morning.

The night chosen was a stormy one. Heavy black clouds shut out the light of both moon and stars, and from them the rain descended. About eleven o’clock, the Lieutenant and the Admiral left the Osprey, preceded by a sailor carrying a ship’s lantern to light the way. When they had covered about half the distance between the vessel and the hotel, the Admiral, turning to the sailor, said:

“Give me the lantern, Markland. I will carry it the rest of the way. You can find your way back to the quay in the dark?”

“Aye, aye, sir!” was the response. “I have been in darker places than this and came out all right.”

The Admiral screened the lantern and waited at the corner of the road for Victor, who went to his room to obtain the axes. They then proceeded on their way towards the deserted building, the rain coming down in the proverbial torrents.

“I shall be much cut up,” said Victor, “if this wetting gives you a cold and an attack of rheumatism.”

“If you don’t get cut up,” said the Admiral, “I will try to bear the rheumatism with patience.”

“Thank you,” said Victor; “you have always been a kind and good friend to me. My course in this matter, no doubt, seems inexplicable to you, but I have a reason for it which, some day, I will explain.”

“My curiosity can wait,” said the Admiral, “but I cannot promise as much if Helen gets wind of the affair.”

They were the first to reach the building. They both entered and examined it thoroughly. The Admiral screened the lantern and looked about him. “It’s as dark as a pocket,” said he. Victor caught one of the crossbeams with both hands and drew himself up until his chin was even with it. Then he allowed himself to descend without attracting the attention of the Admiral. They went outside and, standing beneath the wide-spreading branches of a great tree, awaited the arrival of the other party.

About ten minutes before midnight, the sound of horses’ hoofs and carriage wheels were heard, and, a few minutes later, Count Mont d’Oro and M. Villefort approached the building. As they did so, the Admiral turned the full glare of the lantern in their faces.

The usual courtesies were exchanged and the four men stood expectantly, the Admiral holding his watch so that the light from the lantern could fall upon it. Suddenly, he looked up and said:

“It is twelve o’clock, gentlemen.”

The party entered the building, the Admiral holding up the lantern so that the interior could be examined by the Count and his second. Next, he took the axes from the cloth in which they had been wrapped and passed them to M. Villefort.

“Take your choice,” said he. “As near as I can judge, they are of the same weight and equally sharp.”

M. Villefort selected one which he passed to Count Mont d’Oro, while the Admiral handed the other to Victor. The contestants were then placed in opposite corners of the room, facing each other.

“Are you ready?” asked the Admiral.

The duellists signified that they were.

“Monsieur Villefort and I will now leave you,” said the Admiral. “As soon as we close the door, you are at liberty to change your positions, but you must not attack each other until you hear us cry Time! Five minutes thereafter, we shall open the door, and the contest must stop as soon as you see the light.”

In about a minute, the Admiral and M. Villefort cried in unison:

“TIME!”

Count Mont d’Oro scuffled his feet upon the floor to give his opponent the idea that he had changed his position. Victor stood his axe up in the corner, reached the beam above him with both hands, drew himself up slowly, and assumed a sitting posture upon it. The Count struck out vigorously in front and to the right and left. He then took a circuit around the room, striking out in front, and then whirling about, he made vicious slashes at his unseen enemy. He next swung the axe about in a circle, but it met with no resistance.

Victor sneezed loudly. This so startled the Count, for the sound seemed very close to him, that he started back, coming in violent contact with the side of the building, bruising himself quite severely. He then advanced cautiously on tiptoe across the room. As he neared the corner where Victor was, the latter took his hat from his head and threw it down, necessarily at random. It chanced to strike the Count full in the face. He started back, a cry of affright escaping from him involuntarily. The Fates were against him. There was just one rotten plank in the floor of the building, and upon that the Count stepped. It broke beneath his weight. Finding himself falling, and realising that his foot was caught in some way, he gave a violent pull and succeeded in wrenching his ankle so badly that when he tried to stand up he was forced to succumb to the intense pain, and fell prone upon the floor.

Realising that his opponent had met with some misadventure, Victor dropped from his perch, and, grasping his axe, stood upon the defensive. At that moment, the door was pushed open and the bright light of the lantern thrown upon the scene.

M. Villefort espied the form of the Count upon the floor and, rushing to him, gave him a sup of brandy from a flask which he had thoughtfully brought with him. The Admiral paid no attention to the Count, but sought the corner where Victor stood.

“Bless my soul!” cried the Admiral. “Are you a whole man?”

“I believe so, but somewhat played out,” said Victor, and he leaned heavily upon the axe handle.

“But are you sure that you have all your limbs about you?”

“I think so. Two legs and two arms are the usual complement, I believe.”

“No gashes in your head or back?”

“No, I think not. Oh, there is my hat!” and he stepped forward and picked it up.

“Well,” cried the Admiral, “it is really the most re-mark-a-ble preservation from death I ever heard of in all my life.”

“I must trouble you, Admiral Enright,” said M. Villefort, “to assist me in getting Count Mont d’Oro to his carriage. For reasons which you can understand, I do not wish to call the coachman, who is unaware of the nature of our visit here at this unseemly hour.”

“Certainly,” said the Admiral, “in the hour of defeat, the unfortunate can always count upon my sympathy and assistance.”

Supported by the two men, the Count limped slowly towards the door, evidently suffering greatly. Before he reached it, Victor stepped forward:

“Do you acknowledge satisfaction, Count Mont d’Oro?”

The Count’s face was contorted with pain and, for a moment, he did not reply. Then, he almost hissed out the words:

“From an English point of view—yes—but not from a Corsican. We shall meet again!”

When the Admiral returned, he took up the lantern.

“Are you going to take the axes?” he asked.

“No,” said Victor, “we will leave those for the rent of the building.”

That night, in the solitude of his own room, he took from its hiding-place the white rose with the blood-stained petals. Her rose and his blood!

“Sweet emblem of peace and love, thou art my talisman against evil, and, for her dear sake, these hands shall never be stained by the blood of one whom she loves. I swear it!”

CHAPTER XVI.

ANCESTRAL PRIDE.

It was after midnight when Jack and his escort reached Cromillian’s camp. He was at once taken into the presence of the Chief who, seated in a little grove, was writing by the light of a fire. Jack presented the letter given to him by Victor, which Cromillian opened and read.

Thomas Glynne, who had followed close upon the heels of Jack and his companions, was very anxious to learn the reason for the young man’s visit, under such circumstances, to this particular locality. He approached the camp, skulking behind one tree and then another, when a firm hand from behind grasped his coat collar, and he was hurled violently to the ground. He attempted to rise, but found himself surrounded by four heavily bearded, fierce-looking men, who grasped him and, without saying a word, took him at once to the little grove where Cromillian sat.

Thomas Glynne looked at Jack, who returned the gaze, and instantly recognised the man whom, of all on earth, he least desired to see. The thought occurred at once to each, “Why is he here?” but neither could answer the question.

Cromillian looked up. “Monsieur Andrea Fortier,” said he, addressing Jack, “my thanks are due you for the great service which you have rendered one of my band. This letter, although addressed to me, is for another person. He cannot read, but I will communicate the contents to him and will write his reply, which you can take back to him to-morrow. See that he has food and a bed—the best we can afford,” and Cromillian waved his hand towards the two men who had accompanied Jack to the camp.

As soon as Jack had departed, Cromillian turned to the four captors of Thomas Glynne.

“Whom have we here?” he asked.

Glynne felt that it was a crucial time with him. He must tell a good story, or the bandits might look upon him as a spy and treat him in a summary manner. He was naturally bold and resourceful, and he now summoned all his wits to his aid.

“Will you allow me to ask a question?” he said, addressing Cromillian.

The latter nodded.

“What did that young man who brought the letter to you say his name was?”

“He gave the name of Andrea Fortier,” Cromillian replied.

“That is not his real name,” cried Glynne. “My name is Thomas Glynne. I am an Englishman. His name is Jack De Vinne and he, too, is an Englishman. He caused my ward, Bertha Renville, to run away and he is here to join her. I promised her father on his dying bed that I would be a father to her and protect her. This Andrea Fortier, as he calls himself, is of low origin, while she is a girl of wealth and refinement. He seeks but her fortune, and I appeal to you for justice.”

“Take him away,” cried Cromillian, “and bring the other man here.”

His commands were quickly carried out and Jack, who left his supper unfinished, once more stood before Cromillian.

“What did you say your name was?” asked Cromillian.

Jack, who had no idea of what had been said by Glynne in his absence, replied: “Andrea Fortier.”

Cromillian smiled grimly. “I mean your real name young man. I know what it is, or I think I do.”

It immediately dawned upon Jack that Thomas Glynne had told some sort of a story in order to explain his presence near the bandit camp, and he resolved to make a clean breast of it and tell the whole truth.

“Sir,” he began, “I assumed the name of Andrea Fortier as I did not wish my presence here to become known to the man who has just left you. This I explained to Lieutenant Duquesne, who intrusted me with the letter which I delivered to you. My real name is John De Vinne. I am a Englishman. I am in love with the ward of the man Glynne. Because of dislike and dissatisfaction she left his home, from no suggestion of mine, as I knew nothing whatever about it until she arrived in Paris. Her guardian is withholding from her facts relative to the wealth left her by her father, and is using every endeavour to keep it in his own hands. She fears her guardian, and I am here to protect her and, if possible, make her my wife. I am well connected and am amply able to give her the position in life to which she is entitled. This man, her guardian, must have followed me from Ajaccio.

“Owing to a combination of circumstances which it would take a long time to relate, the young lady went to Paris to avail herself of the protection of Countess Mont d’Oro, an old friend of her father’s. She is now visiting the Countess at Alfieri. We both learned of her presence here and each of us has come to claim her. I have not seen her as yet, nor do I think he has. Sir, that is the whole story.”

“I believe you have spoken the truth, young man,” said Cromillian. “The guardian has told an entirely different story, which may or may not be true. If yours is true, his is false. If his is true, yours is false. When in doubt, I always settle the matter for myself. I will go to Alfieri, see this Mademoiselle Renville and her chaperon, the Countess, and find out which of the stories is true. In the meantime, both you and her guardian will be obliged to remain with my band and, necessarily, share our comforts and discomforts, the latter predominating.”

He sent for Paoli and gave him a strict command that neither Glynne nor Jack should be allowed to leave camp until permission name from him.

The next morning, Paoli asked Cromillian if there was anything special on hand for that day.

“I have not seen my old mother for three months, and I thought, if you could spare me, I should like to make her a visit.”

“Go, by all means,” said Cromillian. “I know of nothing now that will require your services, particularly. I am sorry I cannot send that young fellow who brought the letter last night back with the answer. Can you pick me out a good man who can disguise himself so well that the gens d’armes at Ajaccio will not recognise him? If you can, send him here. I do not care to know who he is.”

An hour later, an apparently old man, with long white hair, a bent figure, and a wrinkled face, presented himself to Cromillian and said, in a squeaky voice:

“I was sent by Paoli.”

Cromillian did not speak, but handed him a letter addressed to Lieutenant Victor Duquesne, at the hotel at Ajaccio.

“Bring back an answer,” said Cromillian. The old man bowed and withdrew.

The bearer of the missive appeared old and decrepit until he was beyond the borders of the camp. Then he suddenly developed an agility entirely at variance with his aged appearance, for he ran at full speed along the road which led to his destination. Hearing a woodsman singing at his work, he quickly resumed the appearance of old age and maintained it until he was out of sight of the wielder of the axe.

When he arrived at the hotel, he learned that Lieutenant Duquesne was in his room. He refused to state his business, saying that what he had to deliver he must place in the Lieutenant’s hands himself. So Victor told the servant to have him shown up to his room.

The old man sat down while Victor read his letter. It was with difficulty that he refrained from exhibiting physical signs of astonishment at its contents and, on several occasions, he came near giving audible vent to his feelings. He restrained himself, however, and only the play of his naturally expressive features gave any indication of what was passing in his mind.

“There was to be an answer, to show that I delivered the letter to the proper party,” said the old man.

Victor wrote, folded, and sealed the missive and placed it, with a silver coin, in the man’s hand.

“Take it to the one who sent you,” was Victor’s parting admonition.

The old man thanked him. Victor opened the door, and, standing at the head of the stairs, watched the aged messenger as he went slowly down and out into the street. Then Victor returned to his room and read and re-read his letter until the words and the lines became blurred and he could see no more.

It began: