Then at last—­it seemed with difficulty—­Scott spoke, his voice very low, oddly jerky.  “What do you mean by that?  Tell me what you mean!”

Sir Eustace made an abrupt gesture,—­the gesture of the swordsman on guard.  He met the attack instantly and unwaveringly, but his look was wary.  He did not seek to throw the lesser man from his path.  As it were instinctively, though possibly for the first time in his life, he treated him as an equal.

“You know what I mean!” he made fierce rejoinder.  “Even you can hardly pretend ignorance on that point.”

“Even I!” Scott uttered a short, hard laugh that seemed to escape him against his will.  “All the same, I will have an explanation,” he said.  “I prefer a straight charge, notwithstanding my damned subtlety.  You will either explain or withdraw.”

“As you like,” Sir Eustace yielded the point, and again he acted instinctively, not realizing that he had no choice.  “I mean that from the very beginning of things you have been influencing her against me, trying to win her from me.  You never intended me to propose to her in the first place.  You never imagined that I would do such a thing.  You only thought of driving me off the ground and clearing it for yourself.  I saw your game long ago.  When you lost one trick, you tried for another.  I knew—­I knew all along.  But the game is up now, and you’ve lost.”  A very bitter smile curved his mouth with the words.  “There is your explanation,” he said.  “I hope you are satisfied.”

“But I am not satisfied!” Quick as lightning came the riposte.  Scott stood upright against the closed door.  His eyes, unflickering, dazzlingly bright, were fixed upon his brother’s face.  “I am not satisfied,” he repeated, and his words were as sternly direct as his look; he spoke as one compelled by some inner, driving force, “because what you have just said to me—­this foul thing you believe of me—­is utterly and absolutely without foundation.  I have never tried—­or dreamed of trying—­to win her from you.  I speak as before God.  In this matter I have never been other than loyal either to you or to my own honour.  If any other man insulted me in this fashion,” his face worked a little, but he controlled it sharply, “I wouldn’t have stooped to answer him.  But you—­I suppose I must allow you the—­privilege of brotherhood.  And so I ask you to believe—­at least to make an effort to believe—­that you have made a mistake.”

His voice was absolutely quiet as he ended.  The dignity of his utterance had in it even a touch of the sublime, and the elder man was aware of it, felt the force of it, was humbled by it.  He stood a moment or two as one irresolute, halting at a difficult choice.  Then, with an abrupt lift of the head as though his pride made fierce resistance, he gave ground.

“If I have wronged you, I apologize,” he said with brevity.

Scott smiled faintly, wryly.  “If—­” he said.