ne, it would be easy
to know what to do. Ah, if one could know that rascal's fence--or if
I--no; the boy would never forgive me; and to cheat a man out of a just
vengeance were as bad as to cheat him of a woman's love." As for killing
a man with whom he had no personal quarrel, the German, unreproached by
conscience, considered the matter entirely in his relation to De
Courval. And here, as he sat in thought, even a duel troubled him, and
it was sure to come; for soon or late, in the limited society of the
city, these two men would meet. He was deeply disturbed. An accident to
De Courval was possible; well, perhaps his death. He foresaw even this
as possible, since duels in that time were not the serio-comic
encounters of the French duel of to-day.

As Schmidt sat in self-counsel as to what was advisable he felt with
curious joy that his affection for the young noble was disturbing his
judgment of what as a gentleman he would have advised. The situation
was, as he saw, of terrible significance. A large experience of men and
events failed to assist him to see his way.

No less bewildered and even more deeply troubled, De Courval lay awake,
and, as the hours went by, thought and thought the thing over from every
point of view. Had he met Carteaux that morning alone, away from men, he
knew that he would have throttled the slighter man with his strong young
hands, glad of the joy of brute contact and of personal infliction of
the death penalty with no more merciful weapon than his own strength. He
thrilled at the idea; but Schmidt, coldly reasonable, had brought him
down to the level of common-sense appreciation of unregarded
difficulties. His mother! He knew her now far better than ever. His
mother would say, "Go, my son." She would send him out to take his
chances with this man, as for centuries the women of her race had sent
their men to battle. He was more tender for her than she would be for
herself. His indecision, the product of a larger duty to her lonely,
helpless life, increased by what Schmidt had urged, left him without a
helpful thought, while ever and ever in the darkness he felt, as his
friend had felt, that in some moment of opportune chance he should lose
for her and himself all thought of consequences.

Perhaps of those who saw the episode of sudden passionate anger in
Gray's Lane none was more puzzled and none more curious than Margaret
Swanwick. Anything as abrupt and violent as De Courval's irritation