Page:Vance--Terence O'Rourke.djvu/395

 owed to the mercy of a man to whom one had shown no mercy.

He stepped back a pace, his features distorted with hate and cunning. O'Rourke made no move, but continued—the saber swinging idly in his hand—to regard the vanquished man, reflectively, as though he were wondering what was to be the outcome, what portion—barring death—he should mete, out to him to whose honor he might not trust.

The duke sidled away, his eyes fixed upon the adventurer's, and informed with an implacable, unreasoning hatred. Abruptly, when he had contrived to put a sufficient distance between them, he turned and began to run down the length of the great hall, swiftly, with an eye ever glancing over his shoulder, watching to see whether or no the Irishman would follow.

But O'Rourke did not. Somewhat puzzled, he waited, confident in his own prowess, now that he was armed, in his ability to cope with any device of the duke's, however infernally inspired.

At the center table, Monsieur the Duke stopped and fumbled with the lock of a certain drawer, a slight, crafty sneer of triumph and contempt admixed with the fear and hatred in his expression. He jerked open the drawer; it slipped from its runners, crashed loudly upon the floor, and the duke knelt by it, watching O'Rourke always, with cat-like vigilance, and groped an instant among the papers it contained.

Abruptly he started to his feet, holding a small, shining object that fitted snugly in his grip. There was a flash, a crack, and a bullet sang past O'Rourke and splattered upon the" stones of the chimney-place.

With a roar of honest rage, O'Rourke started for him, swinging the saber above his head; it was to that alone that he