! That there
was, as it were, some universal cement. But instants passed, and,
indubitably, the world was a broken field! Enmity still existed,
full-veined. It would be like this Alexander, who had overshot another
Alexander, to send challenge after challenge, never to rest satisfied
with one crossing of weapons, with blood drawn once! Or if there was
no challenge, no formal duel, still there would be duel. He would
pursue--he would cry, "Turn!"--there would be perpetuity of encounter.
To the world's end there was to be the face of menace, of old
reproach--the arrows dropped of pain of many sorts. "In short,
vengeance," said Ian. "Vengeance deep as China! When he used to deny
himself revenge in small things it was all piling up for this!... What
I did slipped the leash for him! Well, aren't we evened?"

What he looked for came, brought by Deschamps. The two met in a field
outside Paris, with seconds, with all the conventionally correct
paraphernalia. The setting differed from that of their lonely fight on
a Highland mountain-side. But again Ian, still the better swordsman,
wounded Alexander. This time he gave--willed perhaps to give--a slight
hurt.

"That is nothing!" said Glenfernie. "Continue--" But the seconds,
coming between them, would not have it so. It was understood that
their principals had met before, and upon the same count. Blood had
been drawn. It was France--and mere ugly tooth-and-claw business not
in favor. Blood had flowed--now part!

"'Must' drives then to-day," said Alexander. "But it is December
still, Ian Rullock!"

"Turn the world so, if you will, Glenfernie!" answered the other. "And
yet there is June somewhere!"

They left the field. Alexander, going home in a hired coach with
Deschamps, sat in silence, looking out of the window. His arm was
bandaged and held in a sling.

"They breed determined foes in Scotland," said Deschamps.

"That Scotland is in me," Glenfernie answered. "That Scotland and that
December."

Three days later he wandered alone in Paris, came at last to old stone
steps leading down to the river, in an unpopulous quarter. A few boats
lay fastened to piles, but the landing-place hung deserted in the
winter sunlight. There lacked not a week of Christmas. But the season
had been mild. To-day was not cold, and stiller than still.
Glenfernie, his cloak about him, sat upon the river steps and watched
the stream. It went by, and still it stood there before him. It came
from