tlemen, to protest against
this matter proceeding," he said, a sneer creeping into his voice. "Nor
can I be present at it. Mr. Carvel is young and, besides, is not himself
with liquor. And, in the choice of politics, he knows not which leg he
stands upon. My Lord and gentlemen, your most humble and devoted."

He made a bow and, before the retort on my lips could be spoken, left
the tavern. My cousin Philip left with him. Tom Swain had fallen asleep
in his chair.

Captain Collinson and Mr. Furness, of the Thunderer, offered to serve
his Lordship, which made me bethink that I, too, would have need of some
one. 'Twas then I remembered Singleton, who had passed from my mind.

He was standing close behind me, and nodded simply when I asked him. And
Will Fotheringay came forward.

"I will act, Richard, if you allow me," he said. "I would have you know
I am in no wise hostile to you, my Lord, and I am of the King's party.
But I admire Mr. Carvel, and I may say I am not wholly out of sympathy
with that which prompted his act."

It was a noble speech, and changed Will in my eyes; and I thanked
him with warmth. He of all that company had the courage to oppose his
Lordship!

Mr. Claude was called in and, as is the custom in such cases, was told
that some of us would play awhile above. He was asked for his private
room. The good man had his suspicions, but could not refuse a party
of such distinction, and sent a drawer thither with wine and cards.
Presently we followed, leaving the pack of toadies in sad disappointment
below.

We gathered about the table and made shift at loo until the fellow had
retired, when the seconds proceeded to clear the room of furniture, and
Lord Comyn and I stripped off our coats and waistcoats. I had lost my
anger, but felt no fear, only a kind of pity that blood should be shed
between two so united in spirit as we. Yes, my dears, I thought of
Dorothy. If I died, she would hear that it was like a man--like a
Carvel. But the thought of my old grandfather tightened my heart. Then
the clock on the inn stairs struck two, and the noise of harsh laughter
floated up to us from below.

And Comyn,--of what was he thinking? Of some fair home set upon the
downs across the sea, of some heroic English mother who had kept her
tears until he was gone? Her image rose in dumb entreaty, invoked by
the lad before me. What a picture was he in his spotless shirt with the
ruffles, his handsome boyish face all that w