speaking to your daughter have
I told this lady that I love her, but as a man speaking to a woman. To
utter that should be--nay, is--the right of every man; to hear it
should be honouring to every woman worthy of the name. In a primitive
condition--"

"A thousand devils!" blazed the Marquis, unable longer to contain
himself. "Am I to have my ears offended by this braying? Miserable scum,
you shall be taught what is due to your betters."

His whip cracked suddenly, and the lash leapt serpentlike into the air,
to descend and coil itself about La Boulaye's head and face. A cry broke
from the young man, as much of pain as of surprise, and as the lash was
drawn back, he clapped his hands to his seared face. But again he felt
it, cutting him now across the hand with which he had masked himself.
With a maddened roar he sprang upon his aggressor. In height he was the
equal of the Marquis, but in weight he seemed to be scarce more than
the half of his opponent's. Yet a nervous strength dwelt unsuspected in
those lean arms and steely wrists.

Mademoiselle stood by looking on, with parted lips and eyes that were
intent and anxious. She saw that figure, spare and lithe as a greyhound,
leap suddenly upon her father, and the next instant the whip was in the
secretary's hands, and he sprang back from the nobleman, who stood white
and quivering with rage, and perhaps, too, with some dismay.

"That I do not break it across your back, M. le Marquis, said the young
man," as he snapped the whip on his knee, "you may thank your years."
With that he flung the two pieces wide into the sunlit waters of the
brook. "But I will have satisfaction, Monsieur. I will take payment for
this." And he pointed to the weal that disfigured his face.

"Satisfaction?" roared the Marquis, hoarse in his passion. "Would you
demand satisfaction of me, animal?"

"No," answered the young man, with a wry smile. "Your years again
protect you. But you have a son, and if by to-morrow it should come
to pass that you have a son no more, you may account yourself, through
this"--and again he pointed to the weal--"his murderer."

"Do you mean that you would seek to cross swords with the Vicomte?"
gasped the nobleman, in an unbelief so great that it gained the
ascendency over his anger.

"That is what I mean, Monsieur. In practice he has often done so. He
shall do so for once in actual earnest."

"Fool!" was the contemptuous answer, more coldly delivered now, for