to me that in weariness I am here to resign it?  You, my sister—­you, and what is known of you. . . .  Why can I do nothing with the patriots?  Why were there no recruits?  Why, when I negotiated, did the Paolists listen as to a child and smile politely and show me their doors?  Again, because of you, O my sister!—­because there is not a household in Corsica but has heard whisperings of you, and of Brussels, and of the house in Brussels where you were sought and found.  Blood of the Colonne!—­and now the blood of the Colonne takes an English lover to warm it!  Blood of—­”

With one hand I caught him by the throat, with the other by the girdle, and flung him clean across the table into the corner, oversetting the lantern, but not extinguishing the light, for the Commandant caught it up deftly.  As he set it back on the table I heard him grunt, and—­it seemed to me—­with approval.

“I will allow no shooting, sir,” said he, quickly, yet with easy authority, noting my hand go down to my gun-stock.

“You misunderstand me,” I answered, and indeed I was but shifting its balance on my bandolier, which had slipped awry in the struggle.  “There are reasons why I cannot kill this man.  But you will give me leave to answer just two of his slanders upon this lady.  It is false that I came here to-night by her invitation or in her company, as it is God’s truth that for many months until we met in this room and in your presence she has not set eyes on me.  She could not have known even that I lived since the hour when her brother there—­yes, Princess, your brother there—­left me broken and maimed at the far end of the island.  For the rest, he utters slanders to which I have no clue save that I know them to be slanders.  But at a venture, if you would know how they grew and who nurtured them, I think the priest yonder can tell you.”

The Commandant waved a hand politely.  “You have spoken well, sir.  Believe me, on this point no more is necessary.  I have no doubt—­ there can be no doubt—­that the Prince lies under a misapprehension.  Nevertheless, there are circumstances which lay me under obligation to him.”  He paused.  “And you will admit that you have placed the lady—­thoughtlessly no doubt—­in a false position.”

“Well and good, sir,” I replied.  “If, in your opinion as a man of honour, the error demands a victim, by all means call in your soldiers and settle me.  I stipulate only that you escort the lady back to her people with honour, under a flag of truce; and I protest only, as she has protested, that this traitor has no warrant to sell you his country’s rights.”

The Prince had picked himself up, and stood sulkily, still in his corner.  I suppose that he was going to answer this denunciation, when the priest’s voice broke in, smooth and unctuous.

“Pardon me, messeri, but there occurs to me a more excellent way.  This Englishman has brought dishonour on one of the Colonne:  therefore it is most necessary that he should die.  But before dying let him make the only reparation—­and marry her.”