“Well, sir, and what of it?” he cried, measuring Ratcliffe with a defiant look. “What of it? More than you think.—What were you about, young man,” his voice sunk to a whisper, “when you invited Rakehell Rockhurst to come and view your lady?” “Rakehell Rockhurst…!” echoed Harry in utter amazement. Then, fury leaping to his voice and eye, he wheeled fiercely upon Ratcliffe: “Of whom, sir, are you speaking?” The latter proceeded, unmoved save for a trifle more of emphasis in his silky tone:— “Did you not know that a single breath of his lips is enough to tarnish the virtue of the purest woman in England?” The younger man fell back a step, and measured the speaker:— “Of whom are you talking, I have asked you.” There was more self-control in his demeanour, but more danger. It was tense with menace, like a bent bow. A second Ratcliffe paused. He had not given the lad credit for so much real manliness. The more reason for him to precipitate the crisis for which he was working; the crisis which might rid him of two rivals at once—for the courtly Rockhurst was indeed a rival to be reckoned with. And there was no affectation in the passion with which he now broke out:— “Of whom, good lad? Of whom?——” * * * * * (Edward Hare, strolling out of the dim coolness of the buttery into the sunshine again, heard the sound of loud voices rising from the terrace below. Grinning, he advanced on tiptoe and bent over the parapet to listen. Cousin Ratcliffe and young Harry were at it at last! Even to his dull wits it had been evident that the quarrel that had long been smouldering between them was bound to break into open flame. Better than a wench or a bottle, better even than cockpit or bear-bait, Sir Edward loved the sight of a fight between his fellow-men. He chuckled as he hearkened.) * * * * * “Of whom, good lad, of whom—but the most noble Viscount, in town the incomparable libertine, his Majesty’s merry friend, known by Whitehall as Rakehell Rockhurst—in the country, thy sainted father! Aye, but, town or country, let Rockhurst get to windward of a pretty woman, and the devil will soon show his—” Harry had stood a moment petrified, but before the last words were out he had struck Lionel on the lips:— “Liar!” Lionel staggered back; a narrow streak of blood was running down his chin. In a second he had whipped out the light riding sword that hung by his hip, and without a word made a deadly rush. Harry, however, strong country lad, trained by all the sudden accidents of sport and chase, had his wits about him. He stepped aside from the onslaught, caught up the cloak which lay on the balustrade, and flung it across the blade. “Now, if you please,” said he, shaking his father’s sword free of the scabbard, whilst Ratcliffe, almost foaming at the mouth, struggled with the encumbering folds as if it had been his enemy himself, “let us continue the argument.”