“No, madam. We was told to be here at eleven, with horses as fresh as fire; and the poor tits be mighty impatient to be moving. Steady, Champion! You’ll have work enough this side Dartford,”—to the near leader, who was shaking his head vehemently, and pawing the gravel. Angela waited to ask no further questions, but made straight for the unglazed window, through which Mr. Spavinger and his companions had entered. There was no light in the great vaulted room, save the faint light of summer stars, and two figures were there in the dimness—a woman standing straight and tall in a satin gown, whose pale sheen reflected the starlight; a woman whose right arm was flung above her head, bare and white, her hand clasping her brow distractedly; and a man, who knelt at her feet, grasping the hand that hung at her side, looking up at her, and talking eagerly, with passionate gestures. Her voice was clearer than his; and Angela heard her repeating with a piteous shrillness, “No, no, no! No, Henri, no!” She stayed to hear no more, but sprang through the opening between the broken mullions, and rushed to her sister’s side; and as De Malfort started to his feet, she thrust him vehemently aside, and clasped Hyacinth in her arms. “You here, Mistress Kill-joy?” he muttered, in a surly tone. “May I ask what business brought you? For I’ll swear you wasn’t invited.” “I have come to save my sister from a villain, sir. But oh, my sweet, I little dreamt thou hadst such need of me!” “Nay, love, thou didst ever make tragedies out of nothing,” said Hyacinth, struggling to disguise hysterical tears with airy laughter. “But I am right glad all the same that you are come; for this gentleman has put a scurvy trick upon me, and brought me here on pretence of a gay assembly that has no existence.” “He is a villain and a traitor,” said Angela, in deep, indignant tones. “Dear love, thou hast been in danger I dare scarce think of. Fareham is searching for you.” “Fareham! In London?” “Returned an hour ago. Hark!” She lifted her finger warningly as a bell rang, and the well-known voice sounded outside the house, calling to some one to open the door. “He is here!” cried Hyacinth, distractedly. “For God’s sake, hide me from him! Not for worlds—not for worlds would I meet him!” “Nay, you have nothing to fear. It is Monsieur de Malfort who has to answer for what he has done.” “Henri, he will kill you! Alas, you know not what he is in anger! I have seen him, once in Paris, when he thought a man was insolent to me. God! The thunder of his voice, the blackness of his brow! He will kill you! Oh, if you love me—if you ever loved me—come out of his way! He is fatal with his sword!” “And am I such a tyro at fence, or such a poltroon as to be afraid to meet him? No, Hyacinth, I go with you to Dover, or I stand my ground and face him.” “You shall not!” sobbed Hyacinth. “I will not have your blood on my head! Come, come—by the garden—by the river!”