But somehow everyone had a feeling at this moment that this proposed
duel would be unlike any other combat every fought between two
antagonists. Perhaps it was the white, absolutely stony and unexpressive
face of Marguerite which suggested a latent tragedy: perhaps it was the
look of unmistakable horror in Juliette's eyes, or that of triumph in those
of Chauvelin, or even that certain something in His Royal Highness' face,
which seemed to imply that the Prince, careless man of the world as he
was, would have given much to prevent this particular meeting from
taking place.

Be that as it may, there is no doubt that a certain wave of electrical
excitement swept over the little crowd assembled there, the while the
chief actor in the little drama, the inimitable dandy, Sir Percy Blakeney
himself, appeared deeply engrossed in removing a speck of powder from
the wide black satin ribbon which held his gold-rimmed eye-glass.

"Gentlemen!" said His Royal Highness suddenly, "we are forgetting the
ladies. My lord Hastings," he added, turning to one of the gentlemen
who stood close to him, "I pray you to remedy this unpardonable neglect.
Men's quarrels are not fit for ladies' dainty ears."

Sir Percy looked up from his absorbing occupation. His eyes met those
of his wife; she was like a marble statue, hardly conscious of what was
going on round her. But he, who knew every emotion which swayed that
ardent and passionate nature, guessed that beneath that stony calm there
lay a mad, almost unconquerable impulse: and that was to shout to all
these puppets here, the truth, the awful, the unanswerable truth, to tell
them what this challenge really meant; a trap wherein one man consumed
with hatred and desire for revenge hoped to entice a brave and fearless
foe into a death-dealing snare.