her pardon for thy foul language ... now at once ... dost hear?
... ere I squeeze the breath out of thee...."

Sir Marmaduke felt his knees giving way under him, the smith's grasp on
his throat had in no way relaxed. Mistress Martha vainly tried to
interpose. She was all for peace, and knew that the Lord liked not a
fiery temper. But the look in Adam's face frightened her, and she had
always been in terror of the foreigner. Without thought, and imagining
that 'twas her presence which irritated the lodger, she beat a hasty
retreat to her room upstairs, even as Adam Lambert finally succeeded in
forcing Sir Marmaduke down on his knees, not ceasing to repeat the
while:

"Her pardon ... beg her pardon, my fine prince ... lick the dust in an
English cottage, thou foreign devil ... or, by God, I will kill thee!
..."

"Let me go!" gasped Sir Marmaduke, whom the icy fear of imminent
discovery gripped more effectually even than did the village
blacksmith's muscular fingers, "let me go ... damn you!"

"Not before I have made thee lick the dust," said Adam grimly, bringing
one huge palm down on the elaborate perruque, and forcing Sir
Marmaduke's head down, down towards the ground, "lick it ... lick it
... Prince of Orleans...."

He burst out laughing in the midst of his fury, at sight of this
disdainful gentleman, with the proud title, about to come in violent
contact with a cottage floor. But Sir Marmaduke struggled violently
still. He had been wiser no doubt, to take the humiliation quietly, to
lick the dust and to pacify the smith: but what man is there who would
submit to brute force without using his own to protect himself?

Then Fate at last worked her wanton will.

In the struggle the fantastic perruque and heavy mustache of Prince
Amede d'Orleans remained in the smith's hand whilst it was the round
head and clean-shaven face of Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse which came in
contact with the floor.

In an instant, stricken at first dumb with surprise and horror, but
quickly recovering the power of speech, Adam Lambert murmured:

"You? ... You? ... Sir Marmaduke de Chavasse! ... Oh! my God! ..."

His grip on his enemy had, of course, relaxed. Sir Marmaduke was able to
struggle to his feet. Fate had dealt him a blow as unexpected as it was
violent. But he had not been the daring schemer that he was, if
throughout the past six months, the possibility of such a moment as this
had not lurked at the back of his mind.

The b