Cashel got up so rapidly that he seemed to rebound from the flags. Bashville, involuntarily cowering before his onslaught, just escaped his right fist, and felt as though his heart had been drawn with it as it whizzed past his ear. He turned and fled frantically up-stairs, mistaking for the clatter of pursuit the noise with which Cashel, overbalanced by his ineffectual blow, stumbled against the banisters. Lydia was in her boudoir with Alice when Bashville darted in and locked the door. Alice rose and screamed. Lydia, though startled, and that less by the unusual action than by the change in a familiar face which she had never seen influenced by emotion before, sat still and quietly asked what was the matter. Bashville checked himself for a moment. Then he spoke unintelligibly, and went to the window, which he opened. Lydia divined that he was about to call for help to the street. “Bashville,” she said, authoritatively: “be silent, and close the window. I will go down-stairs myself.” Bashville then ran to prevent her from unlocking the door; but she paid no attention to him. He did not dare to oppose her forcibly. He was beginning to recover from his panic, and to feel the first stings of shame for having yielded to it. “Madam,” he said: “Byron is below; and he insists on seeing you. He’s dangerous; and he’s too strong for me. I have done my best--on my honor I have. Let me call the police. Stop,” he added, as she opened the door. “If either of us goes, it must be me.” “I will see him in the library,” said Lydia, composedly. “Tell him so; and let him wait there for me--if you can approach him without running any risk.” “Oh, pray let him call the police,” urged Alice. “Don’t attempt to go to that man.” “Nonsense!” said Lydia, good-humoredly. “I am not in the least afraid. We must not fail in courage when we have a prize-fighter to deal with.” Bashville, white, and preventing with difficulty his knees from knocking together, went down-stairs and found Cashel leaning upon the balustrade, panting, and looking perplexedly about him as he wiped his dabbled brow. Bashville approached him with the firmness of a martyr, halted on the third stair, and said, “Miss Carew will see you in the library. Come this way, please.” Cashel’s lips moved, but no sound came from them; he followed Bashville in silence. When they entered the library Lydia was already there. Bashville withdrew without a word. Then Cashel sat down, and, to her consternation, bent his head on his hand and yielded to an hysterical convulsion. Before she could resolve how to act he looked up at her with his face distorted and discolored, and tried to speak. “Pray be calm,” said Lydia. “I am told that you wish to speak to me.” “I don’t wish to speak to you ever again,” said Cashel, hoarsely. “You told your servant to throw me down the steps. That’s enough for me.”