Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 141: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

CLOVELLY. that he is gone, God rest him and give him peace in English ground.” So saying, he closed the eyes of the fencer. He raised the sword from the limp hand which could no longer hold it. ‘“ And, my friends,” continued the duke, “since he was a blackguard, but yet a matchless man with a sword, and since fencing is of all arts the most noble, it is fitting that no hand after his should manage this weapon. It was given to him, I believe, by a prince of the blood royal of Spain. Let it be buried with him.” With this he snapped the rapier across his knee, dropped the broken fragments upon the ground, and turned away. CHAPTER XXXII. THE FOG BEGINS TO LIFT. HAT Clovelly saw when he wiped his sword blade and put it up in the sheath again was not the dead man on the ground, or the broken rapier; neither did he hear the words of the duke, except as a meaningless echo, for his whole mind was bent upon Cecily, his wife. She no longer prayed, but leaning weak- ly against one of the pillars which made a portico on the west side of the little court; her head was fallen, and the steep shadow lay across her face. Clovelly took heed of this with a peculiar agony of spirit. “Is it despair because her tormentor has conquered? Or is it utter thanksgiving because I have not fallen?”’ These were the questions he asked him- self, sadly. But in the meantime, his grace of Ipswich had taken possession of him and was dragging him into the house, pour- ing forth a jovial confession of his villainy covered slightly by a pretense of a mere sporting spirit: “T was tired of hearing the Frenchman praised as the paragon of all earthly swords- men. J made a bet with Ormonde that I could furnish an Englishman who woild whip Lascelle to death in a fair fight, hand to hand, foot to foot, sword to sword. “Ormonde was so confident that he of- fered me odds of three to one. But I dis- dained the taking of them, for I knew that 297 you would be my champion, Clovelly! And I knew that an English hand and an Eng- lish heart would match any in all the world.” In the meantime they had come close to Cecily, and the hand of the duke turned to iron on Clovelly’s arm. ‘“ By all that’s holy,” whispered his grace, “T had forgotten her! Present me.” And Clovelly, as he murmured the name of the great noble, and saw Ipswich sweep his finest bow to the girl, told himself that he had come to the end of the bitterest part that ever a man had been called upon to play. But there was still more before him; even crueller minutes to outface. The duke ushered them both into the house, and as they walked on, he found an oppor- tunity to whisper in Clovelly’s ear: “Is she stout oak and willing to give truths a name?” he asked. ‘Or is she mincing with her words? Does she take greater care of herself in her talk than in her actions?” ‘Your grace,”’ muttered Clovelly guard- edly, ‘‘ she is a puzzle which I have not been able to solve. I have ridden with her on the road all these days, but I know less about her at this moment than when I first caught sight of her.” “That makes me think you a philoso- pher, Clovelly. It is usually in the twen- tieth year of a man’s married life that he begins to find his wife extraordinary. But, you, Clovelly, are an exceptionally rare and lucky fellow. You have probed the nature of your wife to the bottom in half a fortnight—” “My lord,” said Clovelly, through his teeth, “no more talk about man and wife, if you please.” “What, man? Did you not really marry her?” “Only with words—an empty cere- mony.” | “By Heavens, Clovelly, did you hire a false priest for the purpose? Have you gone to such a length as that?” “No,” Clovelly replied heavily. ‘ We were married by a man of God—and I wed- ded her with a ring.” His jovial grace of Ipswich stared at his companion, and stared.fan harder with.