She went to the book-shelves, and returned with the volume—Roland’s “Theory and Practice of Fencing.” “Here it is,” she observed, finding the page. “Listen: ‘Perhaps there is no exercise whatever more calculated for these purposes (developing and cultivating bodily strength and activity) than fencing. Riding, walking, sparring, wrestling, running, and pitching the bar are all of them certainly highly beneficial, but beyond all question there is no single exercise which combines so many advantages as fencing. By it the muscles of every part of the body are brought into play; it expands the chest and occasions an equal distribution of the blood and other circulating fluids through the whole system. More than one case has fallen under the author’s own observation, in which affections of the lungs, and a tendency to consumption have been entirely removed by occasional practice with the foil; and he can state, upon the highest medical authority, that since the institution of the School of Arms at Geneva, scrofula, which was long lamentably prevalent there, had been gradually disappearing.’” Just then a tap was heard at the door. Muriel dropped the book, and made one nimble spring through the entrance into her chamber, while Harrington went to the door. It was Patrick come to say that Mr. Witherlee was down-stairs. “Tell him we’re engaged, Patrick, and ask him to excuse us,” rang the silver voice of Muriel through the half open entrance of her room. Patrick departed, and as the door closed, Muriel emerged, laughing, from her hiding-place. “That was a stroke of policy,” she said. “If Fernando were to see me in this costume, it would be town talk to-morrow, and in the papers the day after. Fernando’s mind is a perfect colander—all that gets into it runs out of it.” She was more than ever like a fairy prince the next instant as she stood with the light bright foil in her gloved hand, and her face covered by the gilt mask, over which waved a thick crimson plume. Harrington, similarly arrayed, save for the plume, with the golden wires envisoring his features, advanced toward her. “You have not forgotten your plastron, have you?” he said. “No: it’s under the dress,” she replied. Firm and true as he, she struck guard, and the foils crossed with a clash. “By George! this is delicious,” exclaimed Wentworth, in perfect rapture. And so it was, for Muriel was like some unimagined fairy chevalier as she stood in the beautiful attitude of the exercise, the rich crimson lights of her dress glowing, and its golden ornaments tremulously flashing in the sun-ray, and the sumptuous radiance resting on the proud and elegant flowing curves of her figure. Lithe, superb and strong, an image of health and grace, a form of lyric beauty, she might have stood in her armed posture for the spirit of the foil.