“Aunt,” sobbed my lady without lifting her woeful head, “O aunt ... I’ve trampled him ... triumphantly ... at last!” CHAPTER XLI TELLETH OF THE DUEL ON DERING TYE Reaching the old cross, Sir John paused instinctively and leaned there, oblivious to all but this most bitter of truths. She had acted ... from the very first! The gentle Rose with her sweet simplicity was no more than a figment of his own imagining. The cold, vindictive Herminia had lured him on for this.... Here, indeed, was the culmination of her heartless scheming. Her vengeance was accomplished.... And Rose had never existed! Here, lifting clenched hand, he saw a slow trickle of blood that crept beneath lace ruffle.... She had said his hand was bloody ... and to be sure she had gripped and wrenched his injured arm. Now as he leaned thus against the cross, watching these slow-creeping drops, he became aware of hoofs approaching at a wild gallop, and, glancing up, espied a horseman who rode very furiously, and it was with a faint surprise that he recognised Mr. Hartop; on came the parson, spurring his plump steed mercilessly, until, perceiving Sir John, he abated his speed somewhat. “Sir—sir,” he cried, his voice thin and high, “they are killing the witch ... old Penelope Haryott! The mob is out ... my Lord Sayle will do nothing. They’ve wrecked her cottage.... I’m for Sir Hector MacLean and any who are men ... pray God we be in time! You, sir—quick, I beseech ... High Dering.” “Sayle?” repeated Sir John. “Is he there?” “Sir, ’twas by his orders they ransacked her cottage seeking the man Potter.... God help the poor soul! Haste, sir, if ye would be o’ service!” Next moment Sir John was before the ‘Market Cross Inn’ shouting for horse, ostlers and the Corporal. “Sir?” questioned the imperturbable Robert, hurrying downstairs. “To horse, Bob, at once! Nay, first my sword with the rapier blade!” And, unhooking the gold-hilted weapon at his side, Sir John tossed it upon the table. “The one you bid me sharpen, sir?” “Yes, yes—and hurry, man, ’tis life and death!” And away hasted Sir John to see the horses saddled, to mount and fume at the ostlers until the Corporal came running, the sword beneath his arm. “Is’t sharp, Bob, is’t sharp?” questioned Sir John, as he buckled the weapon on. “As a razor, your honour, both edges, from the p’int six inches up——” “Then up with ye and—spur, Bob!” The Corporal sprang to saddle, found his stirrups, and, wheeling the high-mettled animals, they dashed into the street and away at full gallop: and spur how he would, the Corporal had much ado to keep Sir John in sight. Now presently, as they raced thus, they heard a distant sound that might have been wind in trees, a vague murmur that grew upon them with every stride, waxing ever louder and more terrible, a sound than which there is surely none more dreadful, the ferocious, inarticulate roar of an angry mob.