“Tommy,” exclaimed Sir John at this juncture, “’tis devilish sour wine, this! The properest place for’t is—out o’ the window!” And, with a wide-armed, backward swing he sent the contents of his glass showering over the flaxen wig, wide shoulders and broad back of my Lord Sayle. A gasping oath of angry amazement; a moment of horrified silence.... “What, have I sprinkled some one, Tom?” questioned Sir John and, glancing over his shoulder, he seemed to notice my lord for the first time and laughed. “Why, ’tis no matter, Tom,” quoth he lightly, “’twas only that fellow Sayle. Shall we try another bottle?” My Lord Sayle’s chair was hurled aside, and he turned to leap at the speaker, but recoiled before the thrust of a gold-mounted cane. “Sir,” said Sir John, stabbing him off, “since no ladies are present you ha’ my permission to swear until you weary, but you will do it at a distance—remain where you are—sir!” My lord promptly cursed and swore until he had raved himself breathless. “Tut, sir, tut-tut!” smiled Sir John. “Don’t bluster from the coward’s castle of an injured arm; come to me when you can mishandle your sword and I’ll send you back to bed again.... I think we’ll make it your right leg next time——” At this, my lord’s frenzy broke forth anew, a wild torrent of oaths, vituperations and murderous threats, while Sir John, holding him off with his cane, watched him with a serene satisfaction until once again my lord was constrained to pause for breath; whereupon Sir John continued: “Give me leave to tell you, my Lord Sayle, that I account you a thing begotten in evil hour merely to cast a shadow i’ the sun ... hold off, my lord! ... and esteem you of no more account. At the same time, I seize this occasion to state publicly ... pray, keep your distance, my lord! ... that I, John Dering, being a man o’ sentiment and also of action, do solemnly pledge myself to harass you on every available occasion until I either ha’ the happiness of driving you out o’ the country or the misfortune to kill you.” Here my lord, becoming articulate again, roared and shouted for his sword, vowing he would fight left-handed. But now, despite the mad and terrible fury that shook him and the fell purpose that glared in his eyes as he raved thus, threatening death and damnation, clutching vainly at Sir John’s elusive cane and stamping in baffled rage, the contrast was so ludicrous that some one tittered nervously and then came laughter—an hysterical roaring, peal on peal, that nothing might check or subdue. Even the mild gentleman had caught the contagion and laughed until his Ramillie wig was all askew and himself doubled up, groaning in helpless mirth.