“Jack Gore; a good name for a gallant swashbuckler. The fellow pleased me; he has a backbone and a keen eye. It was like a scene out of a stage-play. And there is the distressed damsel, your daughter, watching to see her champion do his devoir.” Anne Purcell glanced at Barbara and gave a shrug of the shoulders. “If the fool had only had some sense!” “If—yes—if!” “The stubborn brat! To shut her eyes to a mere piece of play!” Hortense looked thoughtful. “Pardon me, but the girl is no fool; that is my belief. It was no sulky, stupid child that dared my Lord Pembroke to bully her.” “No?” “No. But a woman with pride, and a depth of courage in her that could make her dangerous in a quarrel. My Lady Purcell, I could swear that your daughter is cleverer than you imagine.” Hortense saw the plump woman’s face harden. “Perhaps,” she retorted, brusquely; “for myself, I have always thought her a little mad.” As for Barbara, she had no memory for Hortense and the rest. The dim, rain-smirched park, with its pool of stormy light, absorbed all the life in her for the moment. She had seen the torches go tossing out from the gate with a trail of shadowy figures following. The link-boys had headed for a great tree where there would be some shelter from the rain. The torches made a wavering yellow circle about the four chief figures; the rest of the gentlemen gathered in the deeper shadows under the tree. The drifting rain blurred and distorted the details as bad glass distorts the landscape to one at watch behind a window. Yet the four figures with the smoke and flare of the torches seemed vividly distinct to her, two of them stripped of cloaks and coats, so that their white shirts showed up like patches of snow on a distant mountain-side. Engrossed as she was, she heard one of the watchers at the other window give a sharp cry of relief. “At last—see—they have begun! My Lord Gore and Howard stand aside.” It was her mother’s voice, and the words seemed to set some subtle surmise moving in the daughter’s brain. She remained motionless, her eyes on the circle of torches and the faint flicker of steel that was discernible as the two swords crossed. She heard a short, dry laugh, and turned to find the Fellow of the Royal Society standing at her elbow. He was watching the scene under the tree with eyes that had lost none of their youthful sharpness. “There is no need for anxiety,” he said, with a friendly glance at Barbara. They stood side by side in silence for a minute. Then the cynic nodded in the direction of the park. “That mad jackass stood no chance against Stephen Gore’s son. Just as I thought. That—will keep the fool quiet for a time, at least.”