"Damnation!" he muttered with a short angry laugh. "I had forgot." "Aye, so I thought, sir," she answered, smiling scornfully. "And my brother is a better swordsman than I. Yet ’twas a prettily conceived story." "Mistress Barbara, in good truth, I swear——" "I have already heard more oaths this evening than I am accustomed to," she interrupted. "I will not trouble you to further tax your powers. I wish you good-evening, sir." She rose to depart, but he stepped quickly before her, and leaned his back against the door. "A moment, madame, I beg," he said, his voice harsh with anger. "Since it has pleased you to withdraw your trust in me, I see not that I am any longer bound to respect your confidence. ’Tis but an hour since I parted from Sir Rupert. He can yet be overtaken." Barbara raised a terrified face to his. "Oh, no! You could not do that," she said. "And wherefore not?" "Oh, because—because——" she faltered. "Well, madame, your reason?" he demanded again harshly. Barbara flung up her head defiantly, and snatching her rapier from the table raised the point to his breast. "Because, sir, by your own showing," she replied, facing him boldly, "your life is now mine, to do with as I will. Make one motion towards my brother’s undoing, and I swear by Heaven I will run you through as blithely as ever I ran needle into cloth." For a space they stood thus, she with face alight with excitement, he staring down with astonished admiration into her blazing eyes. Then he laughed quietly. "Pardon me, Mistress Barbara," he said, eyeing her coolly. "Your doublet is awry." Instantly she dropped her rapier, her hands flew to her waist, she looked down in deep consternation. All her newborn resolution had vanished, she was but a woman once more. "My doublet is not your concern, sir," she muttered. "Your pardon, madame," he answered pleasantly. "I should in truth have thought a doublet rather my concern than yours; but as you will. If you prefer to wear it thus, of course——" "I—I knew not exactly how it should be worn," she faltered, glancing doubtfully at her figure. Then recollecting herself she continued angrily. "My dress is my own affair, sir. Why should I not play the Rosalind, an it so please me?" "No reason whatever, Mistress Barbara," he continued lightly. "I can only rejoice at my good fortune in being present at the performance. By my faith, the dress becomes you wondrous well." And again he submitted her to a critical survey from head to foot. Her head drooped, her breast heaved, and turning suddenly from him she sank into a chair and burying her face in her outstretched arms upon the table, she burst into bitter sobs. Captain Protheroe regarded her doubtfully. "Woman’s last weapon?" he queried with a cynical laugh. The sobs redoubled in force; they shook her whole body.