Mohun knit his brows; then burst into a laugh.
"Well!" he said, "so those two amiable characters are still bent on
making mince-meat of me, are they? Did you ever hear any thing like it?
They are perfect tigers, thirsting for blood!"
"Nothing more nor less," I said; "the whole thing is like a romance."
"Is it not?"
"A perfect labyrinth."
"The very word!"
"And I have not a trace of a key."
Mohun looked at me for some moments in silence. He was evidently
hesitating; and letting his eyes fall, played with the hilt of his
sword.
Then he suddenly looked up.
"I have a confidence to make you, Surry," he said, "and would like to
make it this very day. But I cannot. You have no doubt divined that
Colonel Darke is my bitter enemy--that his companion is no less, even
more, bitter--and some day I will tell you what all that means. My life
has been a strange one. As was said of Randolph of Roanoke's, 'the
fictions of romance cannot surpass it.' These two persons alluded to
it--I understand more than you possibly can--but I do _not_ understand
the allusions made to General Davenant. I am _not_ the suitor of his
daughter--or of any one. I am not in love--I do not intend to be--to be
frank with you, friend, I have little confidence in women--and you no
doubt comprehend that this strange one whom you have thrice met, on the
Rappahannock, in Pennsylvania, and near Buckland, is the cause.
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