Now the clergyman who ministered to the spiritual wants of Beacon Hargate was never disposed to gorge his flock with too much doctrine at a time, and on this Sabbath had an invitation to luncheon at a great house some four or five miles away, and so treated his parishioners--to the scandal of some and the joy of others--to the shortest discourse they had ever heard from the pulpit. By this mischance it happened that the combatants were discovered by a silent male advance-guard of the home-returning congregation, who ran back--his footsteps soundless on the grass--to spread the splendid news. Sunday or week-day there was no more welcome break in the monotony of life in Beacon Hargate than that afforded by a fight. The time being church-time, and the combatants men of respectable position, lent piquancy to the event, of course, as who shall say me nay? The churchgoers, two or three farmers, Mr. Drake, the manager of Lord Barfield’s estates at Heydon Hey, and a handful of labourers came up, at first stealthily, and then more boldly, and looked on at the finish. It was plain that the fight had been severe, but it was equally plain that the best of it was over; and when Farmer Fellowes interposed as _amicus curio_, nobody but the two most concerned had any especial resentment against him. Even for them Farmer Fellowes had a crumb of comfort. ‘Finish it another time, lads,’ he said. ‘Where’s the good o’ goin’ on wi’ it i’ this manner? Why a child might homber the pair on you. Get fresh an’ have another turn to-morrow, if the ‘casion’s worth it.’ So the fight was left undecided after all, and the adversaries were led off to the neighbouring brook, where they made themselves as respectable to look at as they could before they took their several ways. They were unsightly for a week or two, and were close watched by their women folk lest they should renew the strife. Beacon Hargate knew perfectly well the reason of the battle, and Bertha was mightily disdainful and indignant over both her lovers, who, to her fancy, had disgraced themselves and her. Six days after the fight John Thistlewood’s business for once in a way, as well as his inclination, took him to Fellowes’s farm, and there Bertha (who for very shame had not quitted the house since Sunday) first saw the result of the fray. The stalwart farmer’s face was discoloured, and, in places, still swollen. She saw the wicked handiwork of Lane Protheroe, and vowed within herself that she would see that dreadful young man no more. She could have cried for pity of poor Mr. Thistlewood, who had been thus shamefully treated for the crime of being faithful in love. If John had known it, he had at this instant the best chance of being taken as Bertha’s husband he had ever had, or was like to find. But he was shamefaced about the matter, as heroes not uncommonly are with regard to their achievements, and was disposed to think himself at an even unusual disadvantage.