“You shall suffer for this.... Aye, burn me, but you shall! This is but the beginning ... we meet again ... aye, by all the fiends in hell I’ll ha’ your life for this ... you shall fight me again so soon as I am able!” “With joy, my lord!” answered Sir John, wiping his blade on his lordship’s sky-blue coat that chanced to lie handy. “’Twas purely for this reason that I suffered you to live. Indeed, my lord, I hope to repeat the pleasure of this little _rencontre_ on every possible occasion until I run you out of England. And you should soon be well, for your wound, though painful, is nothing dangerous. One word more, my lord: as regards your sword-play, I should advise a few lessons at your weapon against our next meeting. Au revoir! Gentlemen, your servant!” Then, having bowed to the silent company, Sir John reached out his hand to her who stood leaning against the door. “Come, child!” said he, and led her out of the room, closing the door behind them; then she stopped to face him, her eyes bright, her ruddy lips a-quiver. “Why ... why did you fight—that beast?” she questioned breathlessly. “’Faith, Rose, you heard! ’Twas in the matter of post-horses.” “Horses!” she repeated. “And naught else?” “Naught i’ the world, child.” “Horses!” she panted, in sudden vehement scorn. “And you saw how he would have shamed me! You saw! But then, to be sure, I am but a country wench of none account.... I am merely a poor, friendless girl ... but horses you can fight for, peril your life for, because——” “Because horses are—horses, child, and the horse, you’ll remember, is a noble animal, man’s faithful friend and servant——” “Oh!” she cried, between clenched teeth. “Oh, I hate—despise you—Sir John Dering!” “Ah, Rose child!” sighed he. “Hast found me out so soon? ‘What’s in a name?’ quoth the bard. Alack, a vasty deal! say I. For, ‘Give a dog a bad name and hang him!’ runs the proverb, and methinks ’tis true. So alack for poor Sir John Dering, whose name and reputation are beyond repair and might hang a thousand dogs. But thou’rt hungry, child, and so is poor Sir John. Come, then, haste we to breakfast!” But she never stirred, only she turned her back suddenly. “What, Rose?” he exclaimed. “Why, child, you’re never going to weep?” “No!” she answered. “No!” and sobbed immediately. Then Sir John turned her to face him, took her bowed head between his two hands, lifted it and kissed her upon the brow with a very reverent gentleness. “Rose, child ... sweet innocence,” he sighed. “Never forget you ha’ been kissed by the ‘Wicked Dering.’ And now, come your ways to breakfast!” CHAPTER VIII OF A POST-CHAISE, INIQUITY AND A GRANDMOTHER