He could not
be careless now. Here was a swordsman of the best school calling
upon him for all the skill and strength and cunning that he could
command. Again the saintly element was near being thrown aside by
the worldly in the old man's breast. Alice lying there seemed
mutely demanding that he avenge her. A riotous something in his
blood clamored for a quick and certain act in this drama by
moonlight--a tragic close by a stroke of terrible yet perfectly
fitting justice.
There was but the space of a breath for the conflict in the
priest's heart, yet during that little time he reasoned the case
and quoted scripture to himself.
"Domine, percutimus in gladio?" rang through his mind. "Lord,
shall we smite with the sword?"
Hamilton seemed to make answer to this with a dazzling display of
skill. The rapiers sang a strange song above the sleeping girl, a
lullaby with coruscations of death in every keen note.
Father Beret was thinking of Alice. His brain, playing double,
calculated with lightning swiftness the chances and movements of
that whirlwind rush of fight, while at the same time it swept
through a retrospect of all the years since Alice came into his
life. How he had watched her grow and bloom; how he had taught
her, trained her mind and soul and body to high things, loved her
with a fatherly passion unbounded, guarded her from the coarse and
lawless influences of her surroundings.
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