“They are all of the same kidney, Count, these Americans,” said he.  “They would be dangerous as a nation were it not for their love of money.”  Then to me:  “Go tell your Princess that I have given your life to you.”

“The devil take you!” I cried.  The strain had been terrible.

“All in good time,” retorted the Prince, getting into his coat and furs.  “Yesterday morning I had every intention of killing you; this morning it was farthest from my thoughts, though I did hope to see you waver.  You are a man of courage.  So was your friend.  It is to be regretted that we were on different sides.  Devil take the women; good morning!”

After the Count had gathered up the pistols, the two walked toward the inn.  Pembroke and I followed them at a distance.

“I wonder if he had any idea of what a poor shot you were?” mused Pembroke.  “It was a very good farce.”

“I aimed ten feet to the right,” said I.

“What?”

“Yes.”

“Then you knew—­”

“Pembroke,” said I, “I had no intention of killing him, or even wounding him.  And I never expected to leave this place alive.  Something has occurred during the last twenty-four hours which we do not understand.”

“He was taking great risks.”

“It shows the man he is,” said I; and the remainder of the distance was gone in silence.

The carriages were in the road, a short way from the inn.  Pembroke and I got into ours.  As the Prince placed a foot on the step of his he turned once more to me.

“Pardon me,” he said, “but I came near forgetting to tell you why I did not kill you this morning.  In some way your Princess came into the knowledge that we were going to fight it out as they did in the old days.  She came to my rooms, and there begged me to spare your life.  There was a condition.  It was that she get down on her knees to sue—­down on her knees.  Ah, what was your life compared to the joy of her humiliation!  Not in the figure of speech—­on her living, mortal knees, my friend—­her living knees!” The carriage door banged behind him.

It was only because Pembroke threw his arms around me that I did not leap out of the carriage.

“Sit still, Jack, sit still!  If she begged your life, it was because she loves you.”

And, full of rage, I saw the carriage of the Prince vanish.  As the carriage vanished, so vanished the Prince from the scene of my adventures.  It was but recently that I read of his marriage to the daughter of a millionaire money lender; and, unlike the villain in the drama, pursues the even tenor of his way, seemingly forgotten by retribution, which often hangs fire while we live.

“There are some curious people in this world,” said Pembroke, when he had succeeded in quieting me.

I had no argument to offer.  After a time I said:  “To-morrow, cousin, we shall return to America, our native land.  When we are older it will be pleasant to recount our adventures.”