Hamilton was in the habit of
considering every antagonist immediately conquerable. His
domineering spirit could not, when opposed, reckon with any
possibility of disaster. As he sprang toward Father Beret there
was a mutual recognition and, we speak guardedly, something that
sounded exactly like an exchange of furious execrations. As for
Father Beret's words, they may have been a mere priestly formula
of objurgation.
The moon was accommodating. With a beautiful white splendor it
entered a space of cloudless sky, where it seemed to slip along
the dusky blue surface among the stars, far over in the west.
"It's you, is it?" Hamilton exclaimed between teeth that almost
crushed one another. "You prowling hypocrite of hell!"
Father Beret said something. It was not complimentary, and it
sounded sulphurous, if not profane. Remember, however, that a
priest can scarcely hope to be better than Peter, and Peter did
actually make the Simon pure remark when hard pressed. At all
events Father Beret said something with vigorous emphasis, and met
Hamilton half way.
Both men, stimulated to the finger-tips by a draught of imperious
passion, fairly plunged to the inevitable conflict. Ah, if Alice
could have seen her beautiful weapons cross, if she could have
heard the fine, far-reaching clink, clink, clink, while sparks
leaped forth, dazzling even in the moonlight; if she could have
noted the admirable, nay, the amazing, play, as the men, regaining
coolness to some extent, gathered their forces and fell cautiously
to the deadly work, it would have been enough to change the cold
shimmer of her face to a flash of warm delight.
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