PAGE 11
Simon’s Hour
by
“I have the honor to repeat–you are a fool, I did not know the place was guarded–you told me. I needed privacy; by your orders no one is to enter here to-night. I needed a sword–you had it hanging here, ready for the first comer. Oh, beyond doubt, you are a fool, Vincent Floyer!” Standing in the arm-chair, Simon Orts bowed fantastically, and then leaped to the ground with the agility of an imp.
“You have tricked me neatly,” Lord Rokesle conceded, and his tone did not lack honest admiration. “By gad, I have even given them orders to pass you–after you have murdered me! Exceedingly clever, Simon,–but one thing you overlooked. You are very far from my match at fencing. So I shall presently kill you. And afterward, ceremony or no ceremony, the woman’s mine.”
“I am not convinced of that,” the Vicar observed. “‘Tis true I am no swordsman; but there are behind my sword forces superior to any which skill might muster. The sword of your fathers fights against you, my Lord–against you that are their disgrace. They loved honor and truth; you betrayed honor, you knew not truth. They revered womanhood; you reverence nothing, and your life smirches your mother’s memory. Ah, believe me, they all fight against you! Can you not see them, my Lord?–yonder at my back?–old Aluric Floyer and all those honest gentlemen, whose blood now blushes in your body–ay, blushes to be confined in a vessel so ignoble! Their armament fights against you, a host of gallant phantoms. And my hatred, too, fights against you–the cur’s bitter hatred for the mastering hand it dares not bite. I dare now. You made me your pander, you slew my manhood; in return, body and soul, I demolish you. Even my hatred for that woman fights against you; she robbed me of my honor–is it not a tragical revenge to save her honor, to hold it in my hand, mine, to dispose of as I elect,–and then fling it to her as a thing contemptible? Between you, you have ruined me; but it is Simon’s hour to-night. I shame you both, and past the reach of thought, for presently I shall take your life–in the high-tide of your iniquity, praise God!–and presently I shall give my life for hers. Ah, I a fey, my Lord! You are a dead man, Vincent Floyer, for the powers of good and the powers of evil alike contend against you.”
He spoke rather sadly than otherwise; and there was a vague trouble in Lord Rokesle’s face, though he shook his head impatiently. “These are fine words to come from the dirtiest knave unhanged in England.”
“Great ends may be attained by petty instruments, my Lord; a filthy turtle quenched the genius of Æschylus, and they were only common soldiers who shed the blood that redeemed the world.”
Lord Rokesle pished at this. Yet he was strangely unruffled. He saluted with quietude, as equal to equal, and the two crossed blades.
Simon Orts fought clumsily, but his encroachment was unwavering. From the first he pressed his opponent with a contained resolution. The Vicar was as a man fighting in a dream–with a drugged obstinacy, unswerving. Lord Rokesle had wounded him in the arm, but Orts did not seem aware of this. He crowded upon his master. Now there were little beads of sweat on Lord Rokesle’s brow, and his tongue protruded from his mouth, licking at it ravenously. Step by step Lord Rokesle drew back; there was no withstanding this dumb fanatic, who did not know when he was wounded, who scarcely parried attack.
“Even on earth you shall have a taste of hell,” said Simon Orts. “There is terror in your eyes, my worthy patron.”
Lord Rokesle flung up his arms as the sword dug into his breast. “I am afraid! I am afraid!” he wailed. Then he coughed, and seemed with his straining hands to push a great weight from him as the blood frothed about his lips and nostrils. “O Simon, I am afraid! Help me, Simon!”