There was a sudden swaying of the torches, and the circle of figures swept in upon my Lord Pembroke and John Gore as the sea sweeps in on a sinking ship. Nothing was discernible for the moment but the torch-flare and the knot of eager, crowding men. Then the circle parted abruptly, and they could see two friends throwing his coat and cloak over my Lord Pembroke’s shoulders. He was leaning against his second, his sword-arm hanging at his side. The torches swayed forward and moved in a blot of light from under the tree. John Gore, with his sword set in the grass, was struggling into his coat, his eyes watching the violent fool whom he had wounded in the shoulder. Stephen Gore, distinguishable by his stateliness and his bulk, threw a cloak over his son’s shoulders. The torches moved away, the figures scattered, and the whole scene seemed to melt into nothingness behind the falling rain. The cynic and Miss Barbara still maintained their silent fellowship at the window, as though they approached to each other by showing an uncompromising front toward the world. Her companion seemed to hint that they had a common interest in the proceedings, when he pointed out to her that a couple of torches were moving back toward the house. “Here come the gentlemen who will assure us. Had I had the guiding of that young man’s sword, I should have pricked that wind-bag for good and all.” He continued to talk, as though addressing no one in particular, but only enumerating his own thoughts. “But then—of course—it would be deucedly inconvenient. It is much wiser to let fashionable fools alone; if you kill them, there will be trouble; if you wing them only, there will still be trouble. It is probable that we shall hear within a month or so that my Lord Gore’s son has been bludgeoned some dark night.” Barbara glanced at him with a sharp challenge in her eyes. “Pardon me, it is a very usual method of procedure among gentlemen of fashion. If you have an enemy who is too strong for you, or a man you are afraid to fight, you hire a couple of bullies to ambuscade him—and crack his skull. Both your honor and your spite are thereby greatly relieved.” The torches were close to the gate of the court-yard, though the watchers at the window could but dimly distinguish the faces of those who were returning. “I hope to Heaven he is not hurt!” “Stay there, children! you must not meddle in these men’s affairs.” Hortense and my Lady Anne had moved by mutual impulse toward the door. The girls, who had wished to follow them, remained talking in undertones near the harpsichord. But Barbara was bound by no such casual regulations. She left the cynic by the window, and followed her mother and Hortense.