Their eyes met, and they stood looking at each other with a mute and indescribable tenderness. “I will stay here,” she said, at last. “Well chosen,” he answered her. She held out her hands, stooping a little towards him, her face bathed in the dearness of her love. “God keep you safe—” “For your sake, Bess?” “Yes, yes, for my sake, Mr. Richard.” Jeffray bent, took her hand, touched it momentarily with his lips. He turned and walked back to where the three gentlemen were waiting at the head of the stairway leading to the lawns. Bess had gone back to her seat against the balustrade. She knelt on it, pressing her hands to her bosom, her eyes following Jeffray as he passed down with the others from the terrace. Mr. Beaty and Dick Wilson chose their ground immediately below the stairway where the old turf spread a crisp green under their feet. The swords were measured, and found to be of equal length. Lot Hardacre stripped off his red coat and gaudy waistcoat, gave them to his second, and rolled up his shirt-sleeves over his plump and muscular forearms. He threw his hat aside on the grass, wiped his right hand on his breeches, and took his sword from Mr. Beaty with a genial and meaning grin. Mr. Lot was at no loss for confidence and courage despite the proverbial cowardice of bullies. Undoubtedly he despised Jeffray, smiling rather contemptuously as he ran his eyes over his cousin’s slim and graceful figure. Jeffray had thrown aside his coat and waistcoat, and was standing facing Lot, in black breeches, white silk stockings, and spotless shirt. The point of his sword rested on the grass. Wilson, who was looking at him anxiously, marked the firm, compressed mouth, the alert brightness in the dark eyes, the fine pose of the sinewy and agile figure. The lad was on his mettle, and looked as quiet and dangerous as any veteran. His simple directness of movement contrasted with Mr. Hardacre’s shoulder-swinging swagger and all the flourish and gusto of his self-conceit. They saluted and began. Bess, leaning on the balustrading of the terrace, with her chin between her hands, watched them as though magnetized. Lot Hardacre had opened the attack with a series of florid and rather clumsy passes that suggested more strength and bombast than clear skill. He smiled all the time, his mouth slightly open, his blue eyes agleam. Jeffray appeared in no way flustered by the hectoring vigor of his cousin’s assault. He kept his temper and took the measure of his man, parrying all thrusts with an alertness and precision that betrayed how well he had profited by his schooling at The Wells.