Then the ladies of the kingdom gasped and the valiants stared. A lady broke in through the narrowing circle and ran to the outcast--a wondrous Irish lady of red-gold hair and pale gold silk. Her hand fell upon the sleeve of his great-coat, and her face, the masterpiece from the famous gallery of Erin, was upturned proudly but pitifully to his. “They won’t tell me--they speak of treachery, but no one dares to tell me--what is this horrid mistake?” she demanded. The sudden look of tenderness in Routledge’s eyes gave way to fear and pain. The others had stepped back. “Run away, you blessed girl,” he whispered. “Something big is wrong. I seem to understand it least of all--but its plain I’m bad medicine here now. It will all come out. Meanwhile, don’t be seen with me, Noreen!” He added in the shadow of a whisper, “Your father----” “Father will be here to-night. He brought me to the door, promising to be back within an hour. I think he went to find you. Oh, he’s changed--more than I feared! But you, Routledge-san----” “Please leave me. You are assailing your position by talking with me. That hurts worse than anything these people might say. I shall go out and think it over.... Good-night, Noreen, my dear friend.” But she clung to his arm. “What do I care what _they_ think of me? I want _you_ to know--you must know when you are alone--that there is one woman who will stand by you, through all things!” Her words were not lost to the periphery of the crowd. He drew back stoutly, but his heart sank when she added even more loudly: “Remember, you have one friend--even though all your brave companions fail!” His lips moved with the words: “Dear Noreen--say no more.” “_Remember me!_” came back to him. For an instant she watched as he turned to the door--lineage to Plantagenet and stuff of angels warm in her heart. The other women fathomed his attempt to shield her from them and from her own impulsiveness. What they thought of his gallantry they did not tell; but what they thought of Noreen Cardinegh was revealed in jewelled combs and in the elaborate artistry of back-hair which met her eyes when she turned once more to the hall. “Mighty brave of you, I’m sure, Miss Cardinegh,” said Bingley, stepping to her side. “I should like to have a friend so loyal. But you’re wrong this time, really----” “Even so, Mr. Bingley, I shall trust to my own judgment,” she answered, moving swiftly into the throng, where he did not essay to follow. Routledge had not missed the attitude of the Hall toward her. The tempest of abhorrence, though a new and very wonderful brand of battle, did not shatter his philosophy, but the slight which his champion was enduring for his sake--this was grim hell in his heart.