"Meaning, sir, in regard to either the legacy or the Lady Sophia Sefton. I was never fond enough of money, to marry for it. I have never seen this lady, nor do I propose to, thus, so far as I am concerned, you are free to win her and the fortune as soon as you will; I, as you see, prefer horseshoes." "And what," said Sir Maurice, flicking a speck of soot from his cuff, and immediately looking at me again, "what of Charmian?" "I don't know," I answered, "nor should I be likely to tell you, if I did; wherever she may be she is safe, I trust, and beyond your reach—" "No," he broke in, "she will never be beyond my reach until she is dead—or I am—perhaps not even then, and I shall find her again, sooner or later, depend upon it—yes, you may depend upon that!" "Cousin Maurice," said I, reaching out my hand to him, "wherever she may be, she is alone and unprotected—pursue her no farther. Go back to London, marry your Lady Sefton, inherit your fortune, but leave Charmian Brown in peace." "And pray," said he, frowning suddenly, "whence this solicitude on her behalf? What is she to you—this Charmian Brown?" "Nothing," I answered hurriedly, "nothing at all, God knows—nor ever can be—" Sir Maurice leaned suddenly forward, and, catching me by the shoulder, peered into my face. "By Heaven!" he exclaimed, "the fellow—actually loves her!" "Well?" said I, meeting his look, "why not? Yes, I love her." A very fury of rage seemed suddenly to possess him, the languid, smiling gentleman became a devil with vicious eyes and evil, snarling mouth, whose fingers sank into my flesh as he swung me back and forth in a powerful grip. "You love her?—you?—you?" he panted. "Yes," I answered, flinging him off so that he staggered; "yes—yes! I—who fought for her once, and am willing—most willing, to do so again, now or at any other time, for, though I hold no hope of winning her—ever—yet I can serve her still, and protect her from the pollution of your presence," and I clenched my fists. He stood poised as though about to spring at me, and I saw his knuckles gleam whiter than the laces above them, but, all at once, he laughed lightly, easily as ever. "A very perfect, gentle knight!" he murmured, "sans peur et sans reproche—though somewhat grimy and in a leather apron. Chivalry kneeling amid hammers and horseshoes, worshiping Her with a reverence distant and lowly! How like you, worthy cousin, how very like you, and how affecting! But"—and here his nostrils quivered again—"but I tell you—she is mine—mine, and always has been, and no man living shall come between us—no, by God!" "That," said I, "that remains to be seen!" "Ha?" "Though, indeed, I think she is safe from you while I live." "But then, Cousin Peter, life is a very uncertain thing at best," he returned, glancing at me beneath his drooping lids. "Yes," I nodded, "it is sometimes a blessing to remember that."