“And the High Court of Beacon,” replied Moon with hauteur, “has special powers in all cases concerning lunatics, flower-pots, and doctors who fall down in gardens. It’s in our very first charter from Edward I: ‘Si medicus quisquam in horto prostratus—’” “Out of the way!” cried Warner with sudden fury, “or we will force you out of it.” “What!” cried Michael Moon, with a cry of hilarious fierceness. “Shall I die in defence of this sacred pale? Will you paint these blue railings red with my gore?” and he laid hold of one of the blue spikes behind him. As Inglewood had noticed earlier in the evening, the railing was loose and crooked at this place, and the painted iron staff and spearhead came away in Michael’s hand as he shook it. “See!” he cried, brandishing this broken javelin in the air, “the very lances round Beacon Tower leap from their places to defend it. Ah, in such a place and hour it is a fine thing to die alone!” And in a voice like a drum he rolled the noble lines of Ronsard— “Ou pour l’honneur de Dieu, ou pour le droit de mon prince, Navré, poitrine ouverte, au bord de mon province.” “Sakes alive!” said the American gentleman, almost in an awed tone. Then he added, “Are there two maniacs here?” “No; there are five,” thundered Moon. “Smith and I are the only sane people left.” “Michael!” cried Rosamund; “Michael, what does it mean?” “It means bosh!” roared Michael, and slung his painted spear hurtling to the other end of the garden. “It means that doctors are bosh, and criminology is bosh, and Americans are bosh— much more bosh than our Court of Beacon. It means, you fatheads, that Innocent Smith is no more mad or bad than the bird on that tree.” “But, my dear Moon,” began Inglewood in his modest manner, “these gentlemen—” “On the word of two doctors,” exploded Moon again, without listening to anybody else, “shut up in a private hell on the word of two doctors! And such doctors! Oh, my hat! Look at ’em!—do just look at ’em! Would you read a book, or buy a dog, or go to a hotel on the advice of twenty such? My people came from Ireland, and were Catholics. What would you say if I called a man wicked on the word of two priests?” “But it isn’t only their word, Michael,” reasoned Rosamund; “they’ve got evidence too.” “Have you looked at it?” asked Moon. “No,” said Rosamund, with a sort of faint surprise; “these gentlemen are in charge of it.” “And of everything else, it seems to me,” said Michael. “Why, you haven’t even had the decency to consult Mrs. Duke.” “Oh, that’s no use,” said Diana in an undertone to Rosamund; “Auntie can’t say ‘Bo!’ to a goose.” “I am glad to hear it,” answered Michael, “for with such a flock of geese to say it to, the horrid expletive might be constantly on her lips. For my part, I simply refuse to let things be done in this light and airy style. I appeal to Mrs. Duke—it’s her house.” “Mrs. Duke?” repeated Inglewood doubtfully.