His face was drawn and grey.
"I'm not thinking of them," he said, in a choked voice. "You don't know
what this means to me. You couldn't know, and I can't explain. But my
mind is made up on one point. Whoever goes--I stay!"
He spoke deliberately, though his breathing was still quick and uneven.
His eyes were sternly steadfast.
Herne stared at him in amazement.
"My good fellow," he said, "you are talking like a lunatic! I think you
must have got a touch of sun."
A faint smile flickered over Duncannon's set face.
"No, it isn't that," he said. "It's a touch of something else--something
you wouldn't understand."
"But--heavens above!--you have no choice!" Herne exclaimed, rising
abruptly. "You can't say you'll do this or that. So long as you wear a
sword, you have to obey orders."
"That's soon remedied," said Duncannon, between his teeth.
With a sudden, passionate movement he jerked the weapon from its sheath,
held it an instant gleaming between his hands, then stooped and bent it
double across his knee.
It snapped with a sharp click, and instantly he straightened himself,
the shining fragments in his hands, and looked Montague Herne in the
eyes.
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