The Snare
by Rafael Sabatini
(first published in 1917)
Chapter XII
The Duel
It was a time of stress and even of temptation for Sir Terence. Honour and pride demanded that he should keep the appointment made
with Samoval; common sense urged him at all costs to avoid it. His
frame of mind, you see, was not at all enviable. At moments he
would consider his position as adjutant-general, the enactment
against duelling, the irregularity of the meeting arranged, and,
consequently, the danger in which he stood on every score; at others
he could think of nothing but the unpardonable affront that had been
offered him and the venomously insulting manner in which it had been
offered, and his rage welled up to blot out every consideration
other than that of punishing Samoval.
For two days and a night he was a sort of shuttlecock tossed between
these alternating moods, and he was still the same when he paced the
quadrangle with bowed head and hands clasped behind him awaiting
Samoval at a few minutes before twelve of the following night. The
windows that looked down from the four sides of that enclosed garden
were all in darkness. The members of the household had withdrawn
over an hour ago and were asleep by now. The official quarters were
closed. The rising moon had just mounted above the eastern wing and
its white light fell upon the upper half of the facade of the
residential site. The quadrangle itself remained plunged in gloom.
Sir Terence, pacing there, was considering the only definite
conclusion he had reached. If there were no way even now of avoiding
this duel, at least it must remain secret. Therefore it could not
take place here in the enclosed garden of his own quarters, as he
had so rashly consented. It should be fought upon neutral ground,
where the presence of the body of the slain would not call for
explanations by the survivor.
From distant Lisbon on the still air came softly the chimes of
midnight, and immediately there was a sharp rap upon the little
door set in one of the massive gates that closed the archway.
Sir Terence went to open the wicket, and Samoval stepped quickly
over the sill. He was wrapped in a dark cloak, a broad-brimmed
hat obscured his face. Sir Terence closed the door again. The
two men bowed to each other in silence, and as Samoval's cloak fell
open he produced a pair of duelling-swords swathed together in a
skin of leather.
"You are very punctual, sir," said O'Moy.
"I hope I shall never be so discourteous as to keep an opponent
waiting. It is a thing of which I have never yet been guilty,"
replied Samoval, with deadly smoothness in that reminder of his
victorious past. He stepped forward and looked about the
quadrangle. "I am afraid the moon will occasion us some delay,"
he said. "It were perhaps better to wait some five or ten
minutes, by then the light in here should have improved."
"We can avoid the delay by stepping out into the open," said Sir
Terence. "Indeed it is what I had to suggest in any case. There
are inconveniences here which you may have overlooked."
But Samoval, who had purposes to serve of which this duel was but
a preliminary, was of a very different mind.
"We are quite private here, your household being abed," he answered,
"whilst outside one can never be sure even at this hour of avoiding
witnesses and interruption. Then, again, the turf is smooth as a
table on that patch of lawn, and the ground well known to both of
us; that, I can assure you, is a very necessary condition in the
dark and one not to be found haphazard in the open."
"But there is yet another consideration, sir. I prefer that we
engage on neutral ground, so that the survivor shall not be called
upon for explanations that might be demanded if we fought here."
Even in the gloom Sir Terence caught the flash of Samoval's
white teeth as he smiled.
"You trouble yourself unnecessarily on my account," was the smoothly
ironic answer. "No one has seen me come, and no one is likely to
see me depart."
"You may be sure that no one shall, by God," snapped O'Moy, stung
by the sly insolence of the other's assurance.
"Shall we get to work, then?" Samoval invited.
"If you're set on dying here, I suppose I must be after humouring
you, and make the best of it. As soon as you please, then." O'Moy
was very fierce.
They stepped to the patch of lawn in the middle of the quadrangle,
and there Samoval threw off altogether his cloak and hat. He was
closely dressed in black, which in that light rendered him almost
invisible. Sir Terence, less practised and less calculating in
these matters, wore an undress uniform, the red coat of which showed
greyish. Samoval observed this rather with contempt than with
satisfaction in the advantage it afforded him. Then he removed the
swathing from the swords, and, crossing them, presented the hilts to
Sir Terence. The adjutant took one and the Count retained the other,
which he tested, thrashing the air with it so that it hummed like a
whip. That done, however, he did not immediately fall on.
"In a few minutes the moon will be more obliging," he suggested.
"If you would prefer to wait—"
But it occurred to Sir Terence that in the gloom the advantage might
lie slightly with himself, since the other's superior sword-play
would perhaps be partly neutralised. He cast a last look round at
the dark windows.
"I find it light enough," he answered.
Samoval's reply was instantaneous. "On guard, then," he cried,
and on the words, without giving Sir Terence so much as time to
comply with the invitation, he whirled his point straight and
deadly at the greyish outline of his opponent's body. But a ray
of moonlight caught the blade and its livid flash gave Sir Terence
warning of the thrust so treacherously delivered. He saved himself
by leaping backwards—just saved himself with not an inch to spare
—and threw up his blade to meet the thrust.
"Ye murderous villain," he snarled under his breath, as steel ground
on steel, and he flung forward to the attack.
But from the gloom came a little laugh to answer him, and his angry
lunge was foiled by an enveloping movement that ended in a ripost.
With that they settled down to it, Sir Terence in a rage upon which
that assassin stroke had been fresh fuel; the Count cool and
unhurried, delaying until the moonlight should have crept a little
farther, so as to enable him to make quite sure that his stroke when
delivered should be final.
Meanwhile he pressed Sir Terence towards the side where the
moonlight would strike first, until they were fighting close under
the windows of the residential wing, Sir Terence with his back to
them, Samoval facing them. It was Fate that placed them so, the
Fate that watched over Sir Terence even now when he felt his
strength failing him, his sword arm turning to lead under the strain
of an unwonted exercise. He knew himself beaten, realised the
dexterous ease, the masterly economy of vigour and the deadly
sureness of his opponent's play. He knew that he was at the mercy
of Samoval; he was even beginning to wonder why the Count should
delay to make an end of a situation of which he was so completely
master. And then, quite suddenly, even as he was returning thanks
that he had taken the precaution of putting all his affairs in order,
something happened.
A light showed; it flared up suddenly, to be as suddenly extinguished,
and it had its source in the window of Lady O'Moy's dressing-room,
which Samoval was facing.
That flash drawing off the Count's eyes for one instant, and leaving
them blinded for another, had revealed him clearly at the same time
to Sir Terence. Sir Terence's blade darted in, driven by all that
was left of his spent strength, and Samoval, his eyes unseeing, in
that moment had fumbled widely and failed to find the other's steel
until he felt it sinking through his body, searing him from breast
to back.
His arms sank to his sides quite nervelessly. He uttered a faint
exclamation of astonishment, almost instantly interrupted by a cough.
He swayed there a moment, the cough increasing until it choked him.
Then, suddenly limp, he pitched forward upon his face, and lay
clawing and twitching at Sir Terence's feet.
Sir Terence himself, scarcely realising what had taken place, for
the whole thing had happened within the time of a couple of
heart-beats, stood quite still, amazed and awed, in a half-crouching
attitude, looking down at the body of the fallen man. And then from
above, ringing upon the deathly stillness, he caught a sibilant
whisper:
"What was that? 'Sh!"
He stepped back softly, and flattened himself instinctively against
the wall; thence profoundly intrigued and vaguely alarmed on several
scores he peered up at the windows of his wife's room whence the
sound had come, whence the sudden light had come which—as he now
realised—had given him the victory in that unequal contest.
Looking up at the balcony in whose shadow he stood concealed, he
saw two figures there—his wife's and another's—and at the same
time he caught sight of something black that dangled from the narrow
balcony, and peered more closely to discover a rope ladder.
He felt his skin roughening, bristling like a dog's; he was conscious
of being cold from head to foot, as if the flow of his blood had
been suddenly arrested; and a sense of sickness overcame him. And
then to turn that horrible doubt of his into still more horrible
certainty came a man's voice, subdued, yet not so subdued but that
he recognised it for Ned Tremayne's.
"There's some one lying there. I can make out the figure."
"Don't go down! For pity's sake, come back. Come back and wait,
Ned. If any one should come and find you we shall be ruined."
Thus hoarsely whispering, vibrating with terror, the voice of his
wife reached O'Moy, to confirm him the unsuspecting blind cuckold
that Samoval had dubbed him to his face, for which Samoval—warning
the guilty pair with his last breath even as he had earlier so
mockingly warned Sir Terence—had coughed up his soul on the turf
of that enclosed garden.
Crouching there for a moment longer, a man bereft of movement and
of reason, stood O'Moy, conscious only of pain, in an agony of mind
and heart that at one and the same time froze his blood and drew
the sweat from his brow.
Then he was for stepping out into the open, and, giving flow to the
rage and surging violence that followed, calling down the man who
had dishonoured him and slaying him there under the eyes of that
trull who had brought him to this shame. But he controlled the
impulse, or else Satan controlled it for him. That way, whispered
the Tempter, was too straight and simple. He must think. He must
have time to readjust his mind to the horrible circumstances so
suddenly revealed.
Very soft and silently, keeping well within the shadow of the wall,
he sidled to the door which he had left ajar. Soundlessly he pushed
it open, passed in and as soundlessly closed it again. For a moment
he stood leaning heavily against its timbers, his breath coming in
short panting sobs. Then he steadied himself and turning, made his
way down the corridor to the little study which had been fitted up
for him in the residential wing, and where sometimes he worked at
night. He had been writing there that evening ever since dinner,
and he had quitted the room only to go to his assignation with
Samoval, leaving the lamp burning on his open desk.
He opened the door, but before passing in he paused a moment,
straining his ears to listen for sounds overhead. His eyes,
glancing up and down, were arrested by a thin blade of light under
a door at the end of the corridor. It was the door of the butler's
pantry, and the line of light announced that Mullins had not yet
gone to bed. At once Sir Terence understood that, knowing him to
be at work, the old servant had himself remained below in case his
master should want anything before retiring.
Continuing to move without noise, Sir Terence entered his study,
closed the door and crossed to his desk. Wearily he dropped into
the chair that stood before it, his face drawn and ghastly, his
smouldering eyes staring vacantly ahead. On the desk before him
lay the letters that he had spent the past hours in writing—one
to his wife; another to Tremayne; another to his brother in Ireland;
and several others connected with his official duties, making
provision for their uninterrupted continuance in the event of his
not surviving the encounter.
Now it happened that amongst the latter there was one that was
destined hereafter to play a considerable part; it was a note for
the Commissary-General upon a matter that demanded immediate
attention, and the only one of all those letters that need now
survive. It was marked "Most Urgent," and had been left by him
for delivery first thing in the morning. He pulled open a drawer
and swept into it all the letters he had written save that one.
He locked that drawer; then unlocked another, and took thence a
case of pistols. With shaking hands he lifted out one of the
weapons to examine it, and all the while, of course, his thoughts
were upon his wife and Tremayne. He was considering how
well-founded had been his every twinge of jealousy; how wasted, how
senseless the reactions of shame that had followed them; how
insensate his trust in Tremayne's honesty, and, above all, with
what crafty, treacherous subtlety Tremayne had drawn a red herring
across the trail of his suspicions by pretending to an unutterable
passion for Sylvia Armytage. It was perhaps that piece of duplicity,
worthy, he thought, of the Iscariot himself, that galled Sir
Terence now most sorely; that and the memory of his own silly
credulity. He had been such a ready dupe. How those two together
must have laughed at him! Oh, Tremayne had been very subtle! He
had been the friend, the quasi-brother, parading his affection for
the Butler family to excuse the familiarities with Lady O'Moy which
he had permitted himself under Sir Terence's very eyes. O'Moy
thought of them as he had seen them in the garden on the night of
Redondo's ball, remembered the air of transparent honesty by which
that damned hypocrite when discovered had deflected his just
resentment.
Oh, there was no doubt that the treacherous blackguard had been
subtle. But—by God!—subtlety should be repaid with subtlety!
He would deal with Tremayne as cruelly as Tremayne had dealt with
him; and his wanton wife, too, should be repaid in kind. He beheld
the way clear, in a flash of wicked inspiration. He put back the
pistol, slapped down the lid of the box and replaced it in its
drawer.
He rose, took up the letter to the Commissary-general, stepped
briskly to the door and pulled it open.
"Mullins!" he called sharply. "Are you there? Mullins?"
Came the sound of a scraping chair, and instantly that door at the
end of the corridor was thrown open, and Mullins stood silhouetted
against the light behind him. A moment he stood there, then came
forward.
"You called, Sir Terence?"
"Yes." Sir Terence's voice was miraculously calm. His back was to
the light and his face in shadow, so that its drawn, haggard look
was not perceptible to the butler. "I am going to bed. But first
I want you to step across to the sergeant of the guard with this
letter for the Commissary-General. Tell him that it is of the
utmost importance, and ask him to arrange to have it taken into
Lisbon first thing in the morning."
Mullins bowed, venerable as an archdeacon in aspect and bearing, as
he received the letter from his master: "Certainly, Sir Terence."
As he departed Sir Terence turned and slowly paced back to his desk,
leaving the door open. His eyes had narrowed; there was a cruel,
an almost evil smile on his lips. Of the generous, good-humoured
nature imprinted upon his face every sign had vanished. His
countenance was a mask of ferocity restrained by intelligence, cold
and calculating.
Oh, he would pay the score that lay between himself and those two
who had betrayed him. They should receive treachery for treachery,
mockery for mockery, and for dishonour death. They had deemed him
an old fool! What was the expression that Samoval had used—
Pantaloon in the comedy? Well, well! He had been Pantaloon in the
comedy so far. But now they should find him Pantaloon in the tragedy
—nay, not Pantaloon at all, but Polichinelle, the sinister jester,
the cynical clown, who laughs in murdering. And in anguished
silence should they bear the punishment he would mete out to them,
or else in no less anguished speech themselves proclaim their own
dastardy to the world.
His wife he beheld now in a new light. It was out of vanity and
greed that she had married him, because of the position in the world
that he could give her. Having done so, at least she might have
kept faith; she might have been honest, and abided by the bargain.
If she had not done so, it was because honesty was beyond her
shallow nature. He should have seen before what he now saw so
clearly. He should have known her for a lovely, empty husk; a
silly, fluttering butterfly; a toy; a thing of vanities, emotions,
and nothing else.
Thus Sir Terence, cursing the day when he had mated with a fool.
Thus Sir Terence whilst he stood there waiting for the outcry
from Mullins that should proclaim the discovery of the body, and
afford him a pretext for having the house searched for the slayer.
Nor had he long to wait.
"Sir Terence! Sir Terence! For God's sake, Sir Terence!" he
heard the voice of his old servant. Came the loud crash of the
door thrust back until it struck the wall and quick steps along the
passage.
Sir Terence stepped out to meet him.
"Why, what the devil—" he was beginning in his bluff, normal tones,
when the servant, showing a white, scared face, cut him short.
"A terrible thing, Sir Terence! Oh, the saints protect us, a
dreadful thing! This way, sir! There's a man killed—Count Samoval,
I think it is!"
"What? Where?"
"Out yonder, in the quadrangle, sir."
"But—" Sir Terence checked. "Count Samoval, did ye say?
Impossible!" and he went out quickly, followed by the butler.
In the quadrangle he checked. In the few minutes that were sped
since he had left the place the moon had overtopped the roof of
the opposite wing, so that full upon the enclosed garden fell now
its white light, illumining and revealing.
There lay the black still form of Samoval supine, his white face
staring up into the heavens, and beside him knelt Tremayne, whilst
in the balcony above leaned her ladyship. The rope ladder, Sir
Terence's swift glance observed, had disappeared.
He halted in his advance, standing at gaze a moment. He had hardly
expected so much. He had conceived the plan of causing the house
to be searched immediately upon Mullins's discovery of the body.
But Tremayne's rashness in adventuring down in this fashion spared
him even that necessity. True, it set up other difficulties. But
he was not sure that the matter would not be infinitely more
interesting thus.
He stepped forward, and came to a standstill beside the two—his
dead enemy and his living one.
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