“Lord Kennaston, I pray you pace off the distance,” says Lady Peggy, now at the top of her bent and delirious with joy over Percy’s love of her, with no least intention of touching him, good fencer though she be, and willing enough—such a woman is she—to risk a prick at his hands for sake of the after-salve of the mighty gratitude and passion the minx is now sure of. “Off with your trappings, Sir,” cries Percy. “That will I not!” cries Peggy, taking the first position on the field of honor in all the bravery of her twin’s suit of gray velvets. “You’ll kill me, an you do’t at all, with my clothes on ready to my burial, and I swear ye all, with my latest breath, Lady Peggy and I’ll lie in the same coffin when it comes to that ceremony.” Then in the smoky flare from the dying fire and the slovening candles stuck in their bottles; ’mid the murmur and succeeding hush of the gallants, some with cups, some with cards in their hands, Peggy and her lover salute and take their stands. Says she: “What’s the word, My Lord?” Says he: “If you like, let Lord Kennaston shake the dice-box; at the third throw, Sir, I’m here, ready food for your steel to flesh in!” “It suits me well,” answers Peg, as her twin rattles the ivories. “Here’s for Lady Peggy!” cries she. “Here’s for Lady Peggy Burgoyne!” shouts he, as Kennaston makes the third throw, and Chockey, like to swoon and she a stout heart, never-ail or afeard of even a churchyard on the darkest night, shaking like an aspen-leaf, puts foot on the top rung of the ladder; and Peg and Percy thrust, lunge, withdraw, riposte, hither, yon, keen-eyed, pitched to highest note, nerves strung to cracking—just for a few seconds, shorter time’n it takes to set it down, far. “A touch, a hit!” cry all at once as a spurt of blood darts up the supposed Sir Robin’s blade, and Percy bows, declaring himself quite satisfied, as he must, though ’tis a state of mind he’s very remote from enjoying. [Illustration: A touch, a hit!...] My Lady Peggy winces under her wound, but she has not been Kennaston’s playfellow for naught, and as ugly pricks as this one have been her portion in the past; Chockey, nevertheless, from her nest, pales and utters a smothered shriek which is quite lost in the loud talking that follows, while Chalmers winds the kerchief Sir Percy tenders about the wrist of the wounded. “Now to the cards, gentlemen,” cries His Grace of Escombe, pulling out his purse. “To such a gallant as our friend Sir Robin here, my fingers itch to lose ten, twenty, nay as many pounds as his skill can rid me of; for such a pretty play of the steel as his must argue a lucky throw of the dice.” “Hear! hear! hear!” shout they all, drinking brimming mugs to the two who have lately fought, and settling themselves at the tables with a rattle and a rush of laughter and merry humor.