The foul word that was on his lips never left them, for Mohun’s threat was literally fulfilled.  His right hand shot out from the shoulder with a sudden impulse that seemed rather mechanical than an action of the will, and, catching the speaker full in the mouth, laid him on the carpet senseless and streaming with blood.

CHAPTER XXIV.

     “Look doun, look doun now, ladye fair,
       On him ye lo’ed sae weel;
     A brawer man than yon blue corse
       Never drew sword of steel.”

The dead silence that ensued was broken first by Guy Livingstone.  “It was well done!  I say it and maintain it; Mohun, I envy you that blow!” He looked round as if to challenge contradiction; but evidently the general opinion was that Levinge had only got his deserts.  By this time the fallen man had recovered his consciousness, and struggled up, first into a sitting posture, then to his feet; he stood leaning against a table, swaying to and fro, and staring about him with wild eyes half glazed.  At last he spoke in a thick, faint voice, stanching all the while the gushing blood with his handkerchief.

“Will any one here be my second, or must I look for a friend elsewhere?”

There was a pause, and then from the circle stepped forth Camille de Rosny.  He did not like Levinge, and thought in the present instance he had behaved infamously, but it was the fashion hereditary in his gallant house to back the losing side; so, when he saw every one else shrink from the appeal, he bowed gravely and said,

“I shall have that honor, if you will permit me.  In an hour I shall be at the orders of M. le Colonel’s second.  Where shall I find him?”

“Here,” replied Livingstone.  “I think no one will contest my right to see my old friend through this quarrel.”

Mohun grasped his hand.  “I would have chosen you among a thousand.  You understand me, and know what I wish.”

“Then I shall expect you, De Rosny,” Guy went on.  The Frenchman assented courteously, and then, turning to his principal,

“Let us go,” he said.  “My coupe is at your disposition, M. Levinge. Messieurs, au plaisir.”

Horace followed him with a step that was still faltering and uncertain; but at the door he turned, and, straightening himself up, faced his adversary with such a look as few human countenances have ever worn.  There was more in it than mortal hatred:  it expressed a sort of devilish satisfaction and anticipation, as if he knew that his revenge was secured.

Mohun read all this as plainly as if it had been written down in so many words; but he only smiled as he seated himself and lighted a cigar.

There was an end of lansquenet for that night.  An ordinary quarrel would have made little impression on those reckless spirits, who had, most of them, at one time or another, “been out” themselves; but they felt that what they had witnessed now was the prologue to a certain tragedy; there was a savor of death in the air; so they dropped off one by one, leaving Guy and Ralph alone; not before the latter had expressed, with much politeness, “his desolation at having been compelled to interrupt a partie, which he trusted was only deferred till the morrow.”