Fareham sprang to his feet, black and terrible, but with a savage exultation in his countenance. The wine poured in a red stream from his point-lace cravat, but had not touched his face. “There shall be something redder than Burgundy spilt before we have done!” he said. “Sacre nom, nous sommes tombes dans un antre de betes sauvages!” exclaimed Masaroon, starting up, and anxiously examining the skirts of his brocade coat, lest that sudden deluge had caught him. “None of your —— French to show your fine breeding!” growled the old cavalier. “Fareham, you deserved the insult; but one red will wash out another. I’m with your lordship.” “And I’m with De Malfort,” said Masaroon. “He had more than enough provocation.” “Gentlemen, gentlemen, no bloodshed!” cried Lady Lucretia; “or, if you are going to be uncivil to each other, for God’s sake get me to my chair. I have a husband who would never forgive me if it were said you fought for my sake.” “We will see you safely disposed of, madam, before we begin our business,” said Colonel Dangerfield, bluntly. “Fareham, you can take the lady to her chair, while Masaroon and I discuss particulars.” “There is no need of a discussion,” interrupted Fareham, hotly. “We have nothing to arrange—nothing to wait for. Time, the present; place, the garden, under these windows; weapons, the swords we wear. We shall have no witnesses but the moon and stars. It is the dead middle of the night, and we have the world all to ourselves.” “Give me your rapier, then, that I may compare it with the Count’s. You are satisfied, monsieur? ’Tis you that are the offender, and Lord Fareham has the choice of weapons.” “Let him choose. I will fight him with cannon—or with soap-bubbles,” answered De Malfort, lolling back in his chair, tilted at an angle of forty-five, and drumming a gay dance tune with his finger-tips on the table. “’Tis a foolish imbroglio from first to last: and only his lordship and I know how foolish. He came here to provoke a quarrel, and I must indulge him. Come, Lady Lucretia”—he turned to his fair friend, as he unbuckled his sword and flung it on the table—“it is my place to lead you to your chair. Colonel, you and your friend will find me below stairs in front of the Holbein Gate.” “You are forgetting your winnings,” remonstrated the lady, pointing to the pile of gold. “The lackeys will not forget them when they clear the room,” answered De Malfort, putting her hand through his arm, and leaving the money on the table. Ten minutes later Fareham and De Malfort were standing front to front in the glare of four torches, held by a brace of her ladyship’s lackeys who had been impressed into the service, and the colder light of a moon that rode high in the blue-black of a wintry heaven. There was not a sound but the ripple of the unseen river, and the distant cry of a watchman in Petty France, till the clash of swords began.