And Markheim came. With a roar he flew at the man, striking blindly, wildly, and uttering a volley of language which was in itself a shower of blows. How long they fought Peaches hardly knows. Crouched against the mantelshelf as if seeking the protection of the calmly smiling Virgin above, she watched the two men struggle to a finish. She was fascinated, terrified, and at the same time fiercely exalted. The end came abruptly, with Markheim sprawling on the floor, and Sandro slowly raising himself to a towering figure of contemptuous victory above his employer. "Get up!" he said, panting, as he administered a kick to the prostrate body of the other man. "That will do, I expect. Get up!" Moaning, Sebastian obeyed, his face streaked with blood from a cut upon his forehead, his left eye swollen and rapidly turning as purple as the tattered remains of his dressing gown. "I'll have the law on you for this!" he warned, fumbling for his handkerchief. "Come here!" commanded the servant in a voice of authority. "Help!" squeaked Markheim. But before he could utter another sound Wilkes had him by the collar, and was dragging him to where Peaches still cowered against the wall. "None of that nonsense!" commanded Sandro. "If you yell I'll have to give you another drubbing. Now get down on your knees and ask her pardon!" For an instant Markheim attempted to disobey. But his captor raised his hand and as though at a signal Sebastian fell groveling on the floor before Peaches, bubbling repentance--a loathsomely servile thing from which she shrank. "Oh, take him away!" she begged. "I hate him so! Take him away!" "You hear what she says!" said her rescuer grimly. "Go now! Make haste or I will throw you out!" With some difficulty Markheim got upon his feet and made for the door. "The police!" he said. "I will have the police! Oh, my face--my face!" He had found his handkerchief now, and staggered out of the room, holding it to his wound and mumbling imprecations. Slowly Peaches emerged from her torpor of fright and looked at the man who an hour earlier had been a servant. He was transformed. His shoulders were squared, his eyes alive, his face flushed--he was her boy-lover again. There was no mistake. Now she knew him beyond the shadow of a doubt. If she had ever really questioned his identity, from this moment there was no room for questioning left. All the tightening of her heartstrings, long drawn taut by repression, relaxed. It was as if her whole being had suddenly been flooded with warm sunlight. "Sandro!" she said, going toward him with outstretched arms. "Sandro, my love, my love!" For one second she saw the unwitting, involuntary response in his eyes. Then he looked down, that she might not behold it, and drawing himself up he clicked his heels together and bowed. Though he trembled as he did so, his voice was controlled. "Miss Pegg," he said, "I--I am happy to have served you! Good night."