“Why—why.... O John!” stammered Sir Hector, loosing my lady’s nerveless hands and falling back a step in sheer amazement. “O Rose, my bonny Rose, wha’s a’ this?” he questioned. “The truth, sir,” she answered gently. “I am indeed Herminia Barrasdaile. And now, by your leaves, I will go back to old Penelope.” And so, with a gracious curtsy, my lady turned and went softly up the dark and narrow stair. CHAPTER XLII MR. DUMBRELL MEDIATES The news of my Lord Sayle’s shameful discomfiture on Dering Tye ran and spread like wildfire; in town, village and hamlet near and far it was the one topic of conversation, in busy market-place, at cross-roads and sequestered lane, it was discussed; and ever the story grew. Dering of Dering was back home again and had forced Lord Sayle to fight, and cut Lord Sayle’s clothes from him piecemeal and left him stark naked as he was born! So ran the story to the accompaniment of thumping pewter and gusty laughter, and proud was the man who could boast of having witnessed, with his own two eyes, the never-to-be-forgotten scene. It is to be supposed that my Lord Sayle caught some faint echo of the tale, for by day he held himself sullenly aloof, shunned alike by dismayed friends and trembling servants; but at night, unseen, unheard, who shall tell the agonies he endured, who describe the passionate despair, the mortified pride, the futile rage and burning hate that rent and tore him? All hell raged within his soul, a hell peopled by demons that tortured him until came the arch-devil of Vengeance luring him to his own destruction, urging him to that black gulf whence there is no return. So made he Vengeance his comforter. Yes, Dering of Dering was home again and, mindful of the treatment it had accorded John Derwent, High Dering was aghast; its women lamented to all and sundry, its men shook gloomy heads, but none more despondent than Thomas Nixon, landlord of ‘The Dering Arms.’ “To think,” sighed he, “to think as I stood ’ere an’ watched Sir John turned out o’ his very own inn off his very own land! Mak’s me goo arl ’ot and shiversome it du, neighbours!” “But then ’ow was ’ee to know ’twas ’im, Tom?” quoth one of his hearers. “’Ow was any on us to know?” “Bah!” snarled the ancient Dumbrell, rapping the table with his knobbed stick and getting upon quavering legs. “Everybody ’old their tongues an’ ’ark to oi!” “Aye, but ’ow was anybody to know. Gaffer? ’Ow?” The Aged Soul snorted disdainfully. “’Ow was you t’ know?” he repeated. “Whoy by instink fur sure, same as oi did! What if ’e called hisself Derwent an’ wore a little wig an’ no goold braid onto ’is ’at? Oi knowed ’e wur quality moment oi seed ’im, oi did, fur a gen’leman be arlways a gen’leman!” “Why that be true enough, Gaffer, but——”