Hunt let out a bellow of pain, staggered, and resumed his infuriate rush; but his punishment was now heavier than before. He had lost both wind and head, and he was losing pluck. One of his eyes was already retiring behind folds of livid flesh; and a final blow under the nose, where the first of all had been delivered, knocked him howling into the arms of a new-comer, who disengaged himself as Hunt fell. "What, Claude, is that you?" cried the Duke; and a flood of new sensations so changed his voice, that Hunt looked up from where he lay, a beaten, bleeding, blubbering mass. But in the silent revelation of that moment there was at first no sound save the barking of the fox-terrier outside the saddle-room door. This had never ceased. Then the coachman's pipe fell from his mouth and was smashed. "My God!" said he. "It's his Grace himself!" He had driven the Duke from Devenholme the night before. "The Duke of St. Osmund's!" exclaimed Hunt from the ground. He had been shedding blood and tears indifferently, and now he sat up with a slimy stare in his uninjured eye. "Yes, that's right," said Jack, with a nod to the company. "So now you all know what to expect for cruelty to cats, or any other dumb animals; and don't you forget it!" He put on his coat and went over to the saddle-room. Claude followed him, still at a loss for words. And Hunt's dog went into a wild ecstasy as the key was put into the lock. "Hold him," said Jack. "The dog's all right; and I lay his master'll think twice before he sets him on another cat o' mine." "Come away," said Claude hoarsely; "for all our sakes, come away before you make bad worse!" "Well, I will. Only hold him tight. That's it. Poor little puss, then--poor old Livingstone! Now I'm ready; come along." But Hunt was in their path; and Jack's heart smote him for the mischief he had done, though his own lower lip was swollen like a sausage. "So you're the new Duke of St. Osmund's," said Hunt, with a singular deliberation. "I wasn't to know that, of course; no, by gosh, not likely!" "Well, you know it now," was the reply. "And--and I'm sorry I had to hit you so hard, Hunt!" "Oh, don't apologise," said Hunt, with a sneer that showed a front tooth missing. "Stop a bit, though; I'm not so sure," he added, with a glance of evil insight. "Sure of what?" "Whether you oughtn't to apologise for not hitting a man of your own age!" "Take no notice of him," whispered Claude strenuously; but he obtained none himself. "Nonsense," said the Duke; "you're the younger man, at all events." "Am I? I was born in '59, _I_ was." "Then according to all accounts you're the younger man by four years." "By--four--years," repeated Hunt slowly. "So you was born in '55! Thank you; I shall make a note of that, you may be sure--your Grace!" And Hunt was gone; they heard him whistling for his tike when he was himself out of sight, and the dog went at last. Then the coachman stepped forward, cap in hand.