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"You think that's it, eh?" rejoined Belward, as he tossed a shilling to a beggar. "Maybe, too, your great Saracen to this tot of a broncho, and the grand homme to little Jacques Brillon." Jacques was tired and testy. The other laid his whip softly on the half-breed's shoulder. "See, my peacock: none of that.
Most men placed similarly would have been so engaged with the main event that they had never thought of this other. But Belward was not excited. He was moving deliberately, prepared for every situation. He had a great game in hand, and he had no fear of his ability to play it. He suddenly stopped his horse, and threw the bridle to Jacques, saying: "I'll be back directly, Brillon."
He glanced to the tomb under his hand. There was enough daylight yet to see the inscription on the marble. Besides, a single candle was burning just over his head. "A Sojourner as all my Fathers were." "'Gaston Robert Belward'!" He read the name over and over, his fingers tracing the letters. His first glance at the recumbent figure had been hasty. Now, however, he leaned over and examined it.
He asked a dozen men that evening, but none knew. He would ask Ian Belward. What a fool not to have thought of him at first. He knew all the gossip of Paris, and was always communicative but was he, after all? He remembered now that the painter had a way of talking at discretion: he had never got any really good material from him. But he would try him in this.
Suddenly he started. "Begad," he said, "where did you get it?" He rose. Gaston understood that he saw the resemblance to Sir Gaston Belward. "Before you were, I am. I am nearer the real stuff." The other measured his words insolently: "But the Pocahontas soils the stream that's plain." A moment after Gaston was beside the prostrate body of his uncle, feeling his heart.
In another moment he had the youngster on his back, came slowly up, and the adventurer was safe. "Silly Walter," the girl said, "to frighten yourself and give Mr. Belward trouble." "I didn't think I'd be afraid," protested the lad; "but when I looked over the ledge my head went round, and I felt sick like with the channel."
A laugh came back on Jacques, who followed as hard as he could, and it gave him a feeling of awe. They were apart for a long time, then came together again, and rode for miles without a word. At last Belward, glancing at a sign-post before an inn door, exclaimed at the legend "The Whisk o' Barley," and drew rein. He regarded the place curiously for a minute. The landlord came out.
He had now had it all: the reaction was begun, and he knew it. "Well, Ian Belward, what mischief are you at now?" said Mrs. Gasgoyne. "A picture merely, and to offer homage. How have you tamed our lion, and how sweetly does he roar! I feed him at my Club to-night." "Ian Belward, you are never so wicked as when you ought most to be decent.
It is worth the doing," she went on, looking out on the guests proudly. "I did not think I should ever come to it again with any heart, but I do it for you gladly. Now, away to your duty," she added, tapping his breast affectionately with her fan, "and when everything is done, come and take me to my room." Ian Belward passed Gaston as he went. He had seen the affectionate passages.
Hadn't you better let me try first? Then, if I fail, your chances are still the same, eh?" Cluny gasped. His warm face went pale, then shot to purple, and finally settled into a grey ruddiness. "Belward," he said at last, "I didn't know; upon my soul, I didn't know, or I'd have cut off my head first." "My dear Cluny, you shall have your chance; but let me go first, I'm older."
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