The Rose of Old St. Louis | Page 5

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. I was in such a tumult of rage and mortification that not until I reached the landing on the banks of Cahokia Creek, where the boats were tied and the men busily making ready for the departure, did I bethink me that I had left the house without a word of adieus or thanks to my host for his courtesy. I began to fear that my sense of self-respect would compel my return, and rather would I have faced a battalion of the British than another flash from those dark eyes; nor could I hope to make another so masterly a retreat as I