“It seems, my lord, that, since you are all Christians, I am the only heathen in the room.” The retort came instantly with a sweep of the peer’s arm. John Gore was ready for it, and put the blow aside. Half a dozen gentlemen rushed in and made a human barrier between the pair. My Lord of Pembroke struggled like a knot of fire half smothered by damp fuel. “Hold off, fools! Let go my arm, Howard, or by God, I’ll run my sword through you!” They tried to pacify him, but his violent temper blazed through their words. He looked madman enough as he spat his fury over the shoulders of those who held him back. But for the inevitable steel, the scene might have been ridiculous. “Will you fight?” “I am at your service, my lord.” “Come then, draw! Clear the room. Howard, you are my second.” Hortense’s voice intervened with imperious feeling. “Gentlemen, not in my house.” Stephen Gore had pushed through and stood beside his son. “Take me, Jack; keep cool, boy; the fool’s mad.” “In the park, then.” “Lud! but it’s raining—torrents,” said some one, peering through the window. “Rain! Who the devil cares for rain? Tell my boys to light their links. Get me my cloak, Howard. Are you ready, sir?” “Ready, my lord,” said John Gore. “We can use the swords we have. That is my privilege, I believe.” X Barbara Purcell stood alone by the window, her eyes fixed upon the torches that were spitting and flaring in the rain. The salon had been emptied of its wits and gallants, as though the men had been whirled away into the darkness by the very energy of my Lord Pembroke’s wrath. The women were left alone with the cynical old aristocrat who dabbled in science, and who had not moved from his chair during the brawl. Hortense, who had dreaded bloodshed in her house and the scandal that might follow, was watching from another window, with the three girls and the widow gathered round her. My Lady Purcell appeared to be the most vexed and troubled of them all. She moved restlessly about the room; sat down in a chair beside the cynic; spoke a few words to him, and seemed repelled by the flippancy of his retort; rose again; walked to and fro for a minute, and then, as though driven thither by some spasm of suspense, joined Hortense and the rest at the window. The Mancini heard my lady’s deep breathing, and, turning to make room for her, was startled by the scared expression of her face. But, being discreet, she ignored her guest’s uneasiness. “These men, they must be forever quarrelling! As for that mad, irresponsible lord, I am always in dread of murder when he enters my house.” Anne Purcell leaned against the window-jamb. “And they must drag in others, too. I suppose Howard and Stephen Gore will be at each other’s throats.” Hortense eyed her curiously. “I think they have too much wisdom to cross swords over a lunatic. Who is the little brown man with the broad shoulders and the cool face?” “John Gore, my lord’s son.”