He sank into Dangerfield’s arms, swooning from loss of blood, as Masaroon came back at a run, bringing a surgeon, an elderly man of that Alsatian class which is to be found out of bed in the small hours. He brought styptics and bandages, and at once set about staunching the wound. While this was happening a curtain had been suddenly pulled aside at an upper window in Lady Castlemaine’s lodgings, showing a light within. The window was thrown open, and a figure appeared, clad in a white satin night-gown that glistened in the moonlight, with a deep collar of ermine, from which the handsomest face in London looked across the garden, to the spot where Fareham, the seconds, and the surgeon were grouped about De Malfort. It was Lady Castlemaine. She leant out of the window and called to them. “What has happened? Is any one hurt? I’ll wager a thousand pounds you devils have been fighting.” “De Malfort is stabbed!” Masaroon answered. “Not dead?” she shrieked, leaning farther out of the window. “No; but it looks dangerous.” “Bring him into my house this instant! I’ll send my fellows to help. Have you sent for a surgeon?” “The surgeon is here.” The radiant figure vanished like a vision in the skies; and in three minutes a door was heard opening, and a voice calling, “John, William, Hugh, Peter, every manjack of you. Lazy devils! There’s been no time for you to fall asleep since the company left. Stir yourselves, vermin, and out with you!” “We had best levant, Fareham,” muttered Dangerfield, and drew away his principal, who went with him, silent and unresisting, having no more to do there; not to fly the country, however, but to walk quietly home to Fareham House, and to let himself in at the garden door, known to the household as his lordship’s. CHAPTER XVIII. REVELATIONS. Lord Fareham stayed in his own house by the Thames, and nobody interfered with his liberty, though Henri de Malfort lay for nearly a fortnight between life and death, and it was only in the beginning of December that he was pronounced out of danger, and was able to be removed from Lady Castlemaine’s luxurious rooms to his own lodgings. Scandal-mongers might have made much talk of his lying ill in her ladyship’s house, and being tenderly nursed by her, had not Lady Castlemaine outlived the possibility of slander. It would have been as difficult for her name to acquire any blacker stain as for a damaged reputation to wash itself white. The secret of the encounter had been faithfully kept by principals and seconds, De Malfort behaving with a chivalrous generosity. He appeared, indeed, as anxious for his antagonist’s safety as for his own recovery.