Meanwhile the battle was raging outside the coach. Shouts of "Scoresby!" and "Ingram!" violent lashings of the struggling horses, oaths and execrations, at last the flashing of daggers. When things arrived at this point, Lady Ingram again let down the glass, which she had drawn up, and Celia, like a coward, shut her eyes and put her hands over her ears. Thérèse was screaming hysterically. "Ah!" remarked the Baronet's widow, in a tone of satisfaction, replacing the window, "we shall get on now--William has stabbed the other coachman. Thérèse, give over screaming in that way--so very unnecessary! and Celia, my dear, do not put yourself in that absurd position--it is like a coward!" "But the man, Madam!--the poor coachman!--is he killed?" questioned Celia, in a tone of horror. "My dear, what does that signify?" said Lady Ingram. "A mere coachman--what can it matter?" "But will you not ask, Madam?" pursued Celia, in a very pained voice. "Impossible, my dear!" replied Lady Ingram. "I could not demean myself by such a question, nor must you. Really, Celia, your manners are so wanting in repose! You must learn not to put yourself into a fever in this way for every little thing that happens. Imagine! I, Lady Ingram, stopping my coach, and yielding precedence to this upstart Scoresby, to inquire whether this person--a man of no family whatever--has had a little more or less blood let out by my footman's thrust! Ridiculous!" And Lady Ingram spread out her dress. Celia shrank back as far as she could into the corner of the coach, and spoke, not in words, to the only Friend she had present with her. "Oh! send me back to Ashcliffe!" was the strong cry of her heart. "This woman has no feelings whatever. Unless there be some very necessary work for me to do in Paris, send me back home!" But there was very necessary work to be done before she could go home. After another quarter of a mile spent in struggling through the mud, the coach drew up at the door of a large house. William, who seemed none the worse for his battle, opened the door, and held out his arm to assist his ladies in alighting. Lady Ingram motioned to Thérèse to go first, and the maid laid her hand on the arm of her fellow-servant. "Ah, bah!" exclaimed she, as she reached the ground. "Why you not wipe de blood from de sleeve? You spoil my cloak--faugh!" "You had better not use your dagger, William," observed Lady Ingram, as she stepped out, "unless it be necessary. It frightens Madam Celia." And with a peculiar smile she looked back at her step-daughter.