“In a measure I am. I have my enemies within the walls, but my good friends also. If I get a word with one of the latter, difficulties will dissolve.” Here the youth reined in his horse and sat for a moment anxiously scanning the landscape. A belt of tall trees bordered the lane, with thick undergrowth that seemed impenetrable to sight or movement. Over the tops of the bushes and between the trunks of the trees Armstrong gathered glimpses of a large mansion in the distance, extensive groups of chimneys being the most noticeable feature. Nearer was seen a carpet of green lawn, and beyond, the dappled glitter of the sunlight on a lake. “Will you hold my horse?” asked the youth, almost in a whisper. “I must reconnoitre.” He sprang off his horse, and Armstrong grasped the rein. “I hope they will not neigh,” he said, as he disappeared into the undergrowth. It was evident the youth was well acquainted with his locality. Armstrong sat silent, occasionally leaning over to stroke the neck of the steed he held in tether. He loved all animals, especially horses, and they reciprocated his affection. Suddenly the silence was shattered by a cry hoarse with rage. “I have been watching your approach, perjured scoundrel! You shall not escape me this time.” “Sir, sir, I beseech you,” came the entreating tones of Wentworth; “I cannot bear arms against you. Listen but a moment, sir.” “Draw, you dog, or die the death of one.” “Sir, I implore you; I cannot draw with you opposed. Sir, let me say a word----Oh!” There was one clash of steel, then a brief cry of pain, and now silence again, all so quickly accomplished that first word and last were uttered in the time during which Armstrong leaped from saddle to earth. He searched hurriedly for the leafy tunnel through which Wentworth had passed, but before he found it the lad staggered into sight again, his left hand grasping his breast, his right dragging the sword, his face pale as chalk. “He has killed me,” he gasped. “Nonsense. You would not now be on your feet if the wound were mortal. Who is your assailant?” “No matter for that. Help me home.” “I shall first give the rogue a taste of his own surgery,” cried Armstrong, drawing his blade. But the other restrained his ardour, leaning heavily upon him. “It is her father. Do not leave me; I faint. If--I----if I----I cannot direct you, take me down the lane; the high road. My home----the house to the right.” The victim collapsed in a heap on the sward, reddening the grass with his blood. Armstrong was no stranger to the rough art of the leech. He undid the doublet and flung it open; tore away the waistcoat and shirt, disclosing an ebbing gash. “Well pierced,” he muttered. “An inch to the right would have done the job. The poor chap parried, but not enough; the onslaught was too fierce and sudden. The old man’s intention was good, but the deflexion marred the thrust.”