made ghastly by the hatred in his eyes.

Dyck did not see this look, but he felt a note of malice--a distant note
--in Mallow's voice. He saw that what Mallow had said was fresh evidence
of the man's arrogant character. It did not offend him, however, for he
was victor, and could enter the Breakneck Club or Dublin society with a
tranquil eye.

Again Mallow's voice was heard.

"I'd have seen you damned to hell, Calhoun, before I'd have apologized at
the Breakneck Club; but after a fight with one of the best swordsmen in
Ireland I've learned a lot, and I'll apologize now--completely."

The surgeon had bound up the slight wound in Dyck's shoulder, had stopped
the bleeding, and was now helping him on with his coat. The operation
had not been without pain, but this demonstration from his foe was too
much for him. It drove the look of pain from his face; it brought a
smile to his lips. He came a step nearer.

"I'm as obliged to you as if you'd paid for my board and lodging,
Mallow," he said; "and that's saying a good deal in these days. I'll
never have a bigger fight. You're a greater swordsman than your
reputation. I must have provoked you beyond reason," he went on
gallantly. "I think we'd better forget the whole thing."

"I'm a Loyalist," Mallow replied. "I'm a Loyalist, and if you're one,
too, what reason should there be for our not being friends?"

A black cloud flooded Calhoun's face.