nterest
which the latter had in bringing about this encounter, he determined to
avoid the diabolical snare laid by his former socius, and so gathered
sufficient resolution to restrain his terrible resentment.

To his passing fury succeeded a calm, full of contrition; and, wishing
to play his part out to the end, he knelt down, and bowing his head
and beating his bosom, repeated: "Forgive me, Lord, for yielding to a
movement of rage! and, above all, forgive him who has injured me!"

In spite of his apparent resignation, the Jesuit's voice was neatly
agitated. He seemed to feel a hot iron upon his cheek, for never before
in his life, whether as a soldier or a priest, had he suffered such
an insult. He had thrown himself upon his knees, partly from religious
mummery, and partly to avoid the gaze of the marshal, fearing that, were
he to meet his eye, he should not be able to answer for himself, but
give way to his impetuous feelings. On seeing the Jesuit kneel down, and
on hearing his hypocritical invocation, the marshal, whose sword was in
his hand, shook with indignation.

"Stand up, scoundrel!" he said, "stand up, wretch!" And he spurned the
Jesuit with his boot.

At this new insult, Father d'Aigrigny leaped up, as if he had been moved
by steel springs. It was too much; he could bear no more. Blinded with
rage, he rushed to the able, caught up the other sword, and exclaimed,
grinding his teeth together: "Ah! you will have blood. Well then! it
shall be yours--if possible!"

And the Jesuit, still in all the vigor of manhood, his face purple, his
large gray eyes sparkling with hate, fell upon his guard with the ease
and skill of a finished swordsman.

"At last!" cried the marshal, as their blades were about to cross.

But once more reflection came to damp the fire of the Jesuit. He
remembered how this hazardous duel would gratify the wishes of Rodin,
whose fate was in his hands, and whom he hated perhaps even more than
the marshal. Therefore, in spite of the fury which possessed him,
in spite of his secret hope to conquer in this combat, so strong and
healthy did he feel himself, and so fatal had been the effects of grief
on the constitution of Marshal Simon, he succeeded in mastering his
rage, and, to the amazement of the marshal, dropped the point of his
sword, exclaiming: "I am a minister of the Lord, and must not shed
blood. Forgive ne, heaven! and, oh! forgive my brother also."

Then placing the blade beneath