Mark bit his lip savagely at this; he felt the hostility which some of his actions had awakened, now and then; but he could never be made to see the shame of them. His was a mind which recognized no law of right or wrong or fairness where a foe was concerned. It did not matter much to him who or what the foe was, he would set about crushing him as completely as possible; if he were weak it made Harwood all the more resolved, for, as Lieutenant Blake had insinuated, a weak foe could not fight back, and hard fighting was a thing which Master Mark had not much stomach for. “I have frequently noticed, Harwood,” said Ensign Campbell, “that you always select some such object as Foster for your attacks, when you are left to your own devices.” Mark turned upon the young dragoon with a snarl. “You have a reputation, I believe, Campbell,” said he, “for frequently noticing nonexistent things.” “You mean by that, I suppose,” said the other, composedly, but with a warning sparkle in his eye, “that I am given to stating what is not true.” Mark caught the look in the dragoon’s eyes; at any other time it would have frightened him; but now he was filled with the recklessness of rage. “And another thing,” said he viciously, “you yourself admit that you fled before the sword of Tom Deering that night in the swamp; and yet you, almost in so many words, accuse me of cowardice--I who faced him that day at Foster’s.” “You faced him!” “Yes--I!” Mark’s face was livid with passion; he knew that these men held his personal courage in contempt, and he had a sort of mad desire to convince them that he was equal to themselves in that respect. “Fannin and Clarage will support me in this,” he continued, knowing that he could depend upon the support of these worthies in anything. “Well,” said Campbell, in a changed tone, “if you successfully faced this wonderful swordsman I beg your pardon, for anything that I may have said or hinted at.” “He did not hold his ground long when I sprang up the steps, I assure you,” cried Mark, delighted at the impression which he had created. He at once plunged into a glowing account of what had occurred--colored to suit himself, of course; but he had not spoken a dozen words when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and turning he found himself gazing into a pair of clear gray eyes which looked at him from out the holes of a black mask. “I beg your pardon,” said Tom Deering, quietly, for the masker was he, “but will you kindly repeat what you have said.” Mark shook himself free of the clutch upon his shoulder and returned, angrily: “Who are you, sir? I do not know you. I am speaking to these gentlemen, and am not addressing you.” “Once more I beg your pardon.” Tom’s voice was still quiet. “But your statement to these gentlemen,” bowing to the young officers, “was what made me interrupt you. I know something of the affair at Foster’s, and would like to correct what you have mis-stated.”