For an instant Calvert stood in the shadow of one of the Grecian columns and looked at the scene before him in sick amazement.  So it was to Adrienne that St. Aulaire was singing love-songs in this isolated spot at midnight!  As he hesitated, Monsieur de St. Aulaire rose from his knees.

“You did not always treat me with such contempt, Madame,” he said, with a mocking laugh, “and by God, I have no mind to stand it now,” and, putting one arm around her quivering shoulders and crushing in his the hand with which she would have pushed him from her, he leaned lightly over to kiss her.

As he did so, Calvert stepped quietly forward (’twas wonderful how, though he always seemed to move slowly, he was ever in the right place at the right time) and, seizing St. Aulaire by the collar, hurled him backward with such force that he fell heavily against one of the gleaming marble columns and lay, for an instant, stunned and motionless.  Feeling herself thus violently released from St. Aulaire’s embrace, Adrienne sprang back, uttering a low cry and gazing in surprise at Calvert.  The ease with which he had flung off the larger and heavier man aroused her wonder as well as her admiration, for she never imagined Calvert’s slender, boyish figure to be possessed of so much brute strength, and, since the days of Hercules and Omphale, brute strength in man has ever appealed to woman.  Before either of them could speak, St. Aulaire struggled to his feet and, wrenching his dress sword from its sheath, staggered toward Calvert, thrusting wildly and ineffectually at him.

“Put up your sword, my lord,” says Calvert, contemptuously, knocking up the silver blade with his own, which he had drawn.  “We cannot fight with these toys.  Should you wish to pursue this affair with swords or pistols, if you prefer the English mode, you know where to find me.  And now, begone, sir!”

The quiet sternness with which the young man spoke filled Adrienne with fresh wonder and something like fear.  She glanced from Calvert’s face, with its look of calm authority, to St. Aulaire’s convulsed countenance.  The nobleman’s face, usually so debonair, was now white and seamed with anger.  All the hidden evil traits of his soul came out and stamped themselves visibly on his countenance, in that heat of passion, like characters written in a secret ink and brought near a flame.

“Monsieur l’Americain,” he said, lowering his point and coming up quite close to Calvert, “Monsieur, you have a trick of being damnably mal apropos.  I have had a lesson from you in skating and one in singing, but I need none in love-making.  My patience—­never very great, I fear—­is at an end, sir!  This intrusion, Monsieur l’Americain, is unpardonable,” he went on, recovering his composure with a great effort, “unpardonable—­unless, indeed, Monsieur hoped to gain what I have just lost,” he added, smiling his brilliant, insolent smile, though he had to half-kneel for support upon the marble edge of the fountain.