I raised my sword and struck him with the flat side of it across the face.—Frontispiece, Page 42.
By Right of Sword
BY
ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT
AUTHOR OF "Sir Jaffray's Wife," "Parson Thring's Secret," Etc., Etc.
NEW AMSTERDAM BOOK COMPANY 156 : FIFTH : AVENUE : NEW : YORK HUTCHINSON & COMPANY, LONDON
Copyright 1897 BY ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
I Raised My Sword and Struck Him with the Flat Side of it across the Face . . . Frontispiece
"I Know that You are My Brother, Alexis"
A Swinging Cut Made Another Drop His Knife with a Great Cry of Pain
"Here, Strike," I Cried
"Alexis, Did You Bring That Proposal to Me Deliberately?"
"Take Another Two Grains, Mouse"
I Darted Forward into the Doorway
I Tore It from Him
CONTENTS
BY RIGHT OF SWORD.
CHAPTER I.
THE MEETING.
Moscow.
"MY DEAR RUPERT.
"Don't worry your head about me. I shall be all right. I did not see you before leaving because of the scene with your sister and Cargill, which they may perhaps tell you about. I have done with England: and as the auspices are all for war, I mean to have a shy in. I went to Vienna, thinking to offer myself to the Turks: but my sixteen years in Russia have made too much of a Russ of me to let me tolerate those lazy cruel beggars. So I turned this way. I'm going on to St Petersburg to-day, for I find all the people I knew here as a lad have gone north. I have made such a mess of things that I shall never set foot in England again. If Russia will have me, I shall volunteer, and I hope with all my soul that a Turkish bullet will find its billet in my body. It shan't be my fault if it doesn't. If I hadn't been afraid of being thought afraid, I'd have taken a shorter way half a score of times. My life is an inexpressible burden, and I only wish to God someone would think it worth while to take it. I don't want to be hard on your sister, but whatever was left in my heart or life, she has emptied, and I only wish she'd ended it at the same time. You'll know I'm pretty bad when not even the thought of our old friendship gives me a moment's pleasure. Good-bye. Don't come out after me. You won't find me if you do.
Your friend, HAMYLTON TREGETHNER."
The letter was wretchedly inconsequential. When I sat down to write I hadn't meant to tell Rupert Balestier that his sister's treatment had made such a mess of things for me; but my pen ran away with me as it always does, and I wasn't inclined to write the letter all over again. I hate letter writing. I was to leave Moscow, moreover, in an hour or two, and when I had had my things sent to the railway station and followed them, I dropped the letter into the box without altering a word.
It had made me thoughtful, however; and I stood on the platform looking moodily about me, wondering whether I should find the end I wished most speedily by joining the army or the Nihilists; and which course would bring me the most exciting and quickest death.
I had three or four hours to wait before my train left, and I walked up and down the platform trying to force myself to feel an interest in what was going on about me.
Presently I noticed that I was the object of the close vigilance of a small group of soldiers such as will generally be seen hanging about the big stations in Russia. They looked at me very intently; I noticed them whisper one to another evidently about me; and as I passed they drew themselves up to attention and saluted me. I returned the salute, amused at their mistake, and entered one of the large waiting saloons.
It was empty save for one occupant, who was standing by the big stove looking out of a window near. This was a girl, and a glimpse I caught of her face shewed me she was pretty, while her attitude seemed to suggest grief.
As I entered and went to another part of the room, she started and glanced at me and then looked away. A few seconds later, however, she looked round furtively, and then to my abundant surprise, came across and said in a low, confidential tone:
