The devils which had been awake in him had been devils so awful as he
well knew--not devils to possess and tear a man in the days of good
Queen Anne, but such as, in times long past, possessed those who slew,
and hacked, and tortured, and felt an enemy a prey to be put to _peine
forte et dure_. He drew his glove across his brow and found it damp.
This dream had taken hold upon him three hours before, when, standing
by chance near a group about John Oxon, he had heard him sneer as the
old Earl went by with his lady upon his arm. From that moment his brain
had held but one thought--this man should not go away until he had
taught him a thing. He would teach him, proving to him that there was a
power which he might well fear, and which would show no mercy, not even
the mercy mere death would show, but would hold over his vile soul a
greater awfulness. But he had danced his minuets and gavottes with my
Lady Dunstanwolde as well as with other fair ones, and the country
gentry had looked on and applauded him in their talk, telling each
other of his fortunes, and of how he had had a wound at Blenheim,
distinguished himself elsewhere, and set the world wondering because
after his home-coming he took no Duchess instead of choosing one, as
all expected. While they had so talked and he had danced he had made
his plan, and his devils had roused themselves and risen. And then he
had made his excuses to his party and watched the coaches drive away,
and had gone back to seek John Oxon.
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