“Pray, forgive this intrusion, but I come to quell this lady’s apprehensions, to bid her weep no more. For, sir, you cannot possibly fight my Lord Sayle——” “But, sir—sir,” stammered the pale young gentleman, “I ... it seems I must. I have already accepted——” “No matter, sir,” answered Sir John. “You cannot possibly cross steel with my Lord Sayle until I have had that pleasure, since mine is the prior claim, as I will instantly make apparent if you will trouble to step upstairs with me.” “But, sir ... I ... I don’t understand,” murmured the young gentleman. “Pray, whom have I the honour to address?” “My name is Dering, sir, John Dering—at your service.” “Dering!” exclaimed the young gentleman. “Sir John Dering of Dering?” “Oh!” cried the lady, clasping trembling hands. “The duellist?” Sir John bowed. “And my name is Markham, sir——” “Why, then, Mr. Markham, if you will accompany me upstairs——” “Willingly, sir,” answered Mr. Markham. “O Jasper!” cried the lady. “He ... you are not going to—fight?” “No, no, dearest!” “Madam,” said Sir John in his gentlest voice, “I pledge my word this gentleman shall not fight my Lord Sayle now or at any other time——” “You—oh, you are sure, sir?” “Upon my soul and honour, madam!” “Then go, Jasper, if you must. But be not long or I shall swoon or run mad!” “She ... my wife is ... is not ... very strong, sir,” stammered the young gentleman as they ascended the broad stair with the imperturbable Robert at their heels. “And so very young, sir!” said Sir John sympathetically. My Lord Sayle was at wine, supported by his two companions, Sir Roland Lingley and Major Orme, and surrounded by young bloods and country beaux who hearkened to his dicta eagerly and viewed with eyes of awesome envy this man who had flashed his terrible steel so often. My lord, used to such hero-worship, condescended to unbend, and was animadverting for their behoof upon the delicate point as to how and when and why to take up a quarrel, when he became aware of a stir at the door, of a quick, light footstep, of a holly-stick that with sudden, graceful twirl swept decanter and glasses crashing to the floor in splintered ruin, of a face delicately pale and lighted by a pair of long-lashed eyes that glared down at him, and of Sir John Dering’s high-pitched, drawling, hated voice: “If there is any one present who feels himself in the very least affronted, I shall be most happy to accommodate him on the spot!” And, dropping the holly-stick, Sir John drew sword, before whose glitter the company drew back as one man. “And who the devil might you be?” demanded a voice. “My name, sirs, is John Dering, and I am here to tell Mr. Markham in your presence that he cannot fight my Lord Sayle since I have the prior claim, a claim I will forgo to no man breathing. I am here also to tell you, gentlemen of Sussex, that I stand solemnly pledged to drive my Lord Sayle out o’ the country or eventually kill him—whichsoever he desire, for——”