The man who had been ill unto death and the man who for many years had worn no sword acquitted themselves well. Had the room been a field behind Montagu House, had there been present seconds, a physician, gaping chairmen, the interest would have been breathless. As it was, the lady upon the wall smiled on, with her eyes forever upon the blossoms in her hand, and the river without, when it could be heard through the clashing of steel, made but a listless and dreamy sound. Each swordsman knew that he had provoked a friend to whom his debt was great, but each, according to his godless creed, must strive as though that friend were his dearest foe. The Englishman fought coolly, the Gael with fervor. The latter had an unguarded moment. Haward’s blade leaped to meet it, and on the other’s shirt appeared a bright red stain. In the moment that he was touched the Highlander let fall his sword. Haward, not understanding, lowered his point, and with a gesture bade his antagonist recover the weapon. But the storekeeper folded his arms. “Where blood has been drawn there is satisfaction,” he said. “I have given it to you, and now, by the bones of Gillean-na-Tuaidhe, I will not fight you longer!” For a minute or more Haward stood with his eyes upon the ground and his hand yet closely clasping the rapier hilt; then, drawing a long breath, he took up the velvet scabbard and slowly sheathed his blade. “I am content,” he said. “Your wound, I hope, is slight?” MacLean thrust a handkerchief into his bosom to stanch the bleeding. “A pin prick,” he said indifferently. His late antagonist held out his hand. “It is well over. Come! We are not young hotheads, but men who have lived and suffered, and should know the vanity and the pity of such strife. Let us forget this hour, call each other friends again”-- “Tell me first,” demanded MacLean, his arm rigid at his side,--“tell me first why you fought Mr. Everard and Mr. Travis.” Gray eyes and dark blue met. “I fought them,” said Haward, “because, on a time, they offered insult to the woman whom I intend to make my wife.” So quiet was it in the room when he had spoken that the wash of the river, the tapping of walnut branches outside the window, the dropping of coals upon the hearth, became loud and insistent sounds. Then, “Darden’s Audrey?” said MacLean in a whisper. “Not Darden’s Audrey, but mine,” answered Haward,--“the only woman I have ever loved or shall love.”