The Rose of Old St. Louis | Page 5

agent of his humiliation when I
was in fact the victim of his own stupidity, sprang at me with a vicious
growl.
Here was an occasion to vent my boiling wrath. Quick as thought my
sword sprang from its sheath and came down flat-sided with a ringing
blow on the brute's head. I have ever been a merciful man to all beasts,
and dogs and horses I have loved and they have loved me; and even in
my wrath and the quick necessity of defense I remembered to use the
flat of my sword; yet such is the strength of my sword-arm from much
practice, increased, I fear, by a venom instigated by those silvery peals
of laughter, that I bowled the brute over as easily as if he had been a
ninepin.
With a howl of mingled rage and pain he recovered himself instantly
and crouched to spring upon me once more, with such bloodthirst in his
eyes that I saw now I would have to defend myself in earnest. But as he
was almost in the act of springing, from among the group of maidens
there rushed what seemed to my dazzled vision a small whirlwind of
satins and laces and velvets and jewels, and flung itself upon the dog
with a ringing cry of "À bas, Leon! tais-toi, mon ange!"
The brute yielded obedience at once to the restraining arm and tones of
command, though still regarding me with vicious eyes and uttering
threatening growls.
As for me, I stood as if turned to stone, still in an attitude of defense,
the weight of my body thrown forward on the right foot, the hilt of my
sword pressed against my breast, the point presented to receive the
onslaught of the brute. In that attitude I stood frozen, for never had I
beheld such a vision of loveliness. The arm that encircled the shaggy
neck of the dog was bare almost to the shoulder, the sleeve of finest
lace having fallen back in the energy of her action, and never have I
seen an arm so white, so round, or tapering so finely to the slender
wrist and exquisite little hand clutching a lock of Leon's mane. Masses
of wavy dark hair were drawn loosely back from a brow of dazzling

whiteness into a cluster of soft curls on top of the head, where it
seemed to be caught by a jeweled aigret, which yet permitted tiny
ringlets to escape about the temples and the nape of the snowy neck.
She had thrown herself with such abandon on the dog, and was holding
him with such exertion of strength, that the narrow skirt of her satin
gown, flowered in palest pink and silver, revealed every line of a most
exquisite figure down to the little foot extending backward from her
skirts and showing the high arch of the instep in its stocking of
embroidered silk.
I had gazed with impunity, for the drooping white lids and the long,
dark lashes sweeping the perfect curve of the cheek showed all her
looks were for the dog, to whom she incessantly murmured in French
mingled words of command and endearment. But suddenly she lifted
her little head and flung it proudly back, with such a blaze of
indignation and scorn in her dark eyes I felt withered under it. The
scarlet curve of her lips fell away to disclose two rows of pearly teeth,
close set, and through them, with a vicious snap, came the one word:
"Bête!"
I could not for a moment think that the word was meant for the dog,
and such a rage slowly welled in my veins as restored me at once to my
self-command. I dropped the point of my sword to the floor and
straightened myself to as proud a pose as hers.
"I pray you pardon, Mademoiselle," I said haughtily. The words were
meek enough, but not the tone nor the manner, and so enraged was I
that I hesitated not a moment over my French. My accent, I knew, was
good, for, my aunt having married Monsieur Barbé Marbois, I was
thrown much with French people; but I had been ever careless of my
grammar, and in a moment of less excitement I might have hesitated in
venturing on the native tongue of so fair a creature. But now my French
poured from me in an angry torrent:
"I pray you pardon. Danger alone is my excuse. I do not doubt a dog is
worth much more to Mademoiselle than the life of an American
gentleman. I make you, Mademoiselle, my compliments and my

excuses."
Then returning my sword to its scabbard with an angry ring, I made her
a low and sweeping bow of ironical courtesy and strode hotly from the
room.