“Hark!” cried Belinda, “here they are.” She ran down stairs instantly. The first object that she saw was Lady Delacour in convulsions--the street-door was open--the hall was crowded with servants. Belinda made her way through them, and, in a calm voice, requested that Lady Delacour might immediately be brought to her own dressing-room, and that she should there be left to Marriott’s care and hers. Mr. Hervey assisted in carrying Lady Delacour--she came to her senses as they were taking her up stairs. “Set me down, set me down,” she exclaimed: “I am not hurt--I am quite well,--Where’s Marriott? Where’s Miss Portman?” “Here we are--you shall be carried quite safely--trust to me,” said Belinda, in a firm tone, “and do not struggle.” Lady Delacour submitted: she was in agonizing pain, but her fortitude was so great that she never uttered a groan. It was the constraint which she had put upon herself, by endeavouring not to scream, which threw her into convulsions. “She is hurt--I am sure she is hurt, though she will not acknowledge it,” cried Clarence Hervey. “My ankle is sprained, that’s all,” said Lady Delacour--“lay me on this sofa, and leave me to Belinda.” “What’s all this?” cried Lord Delacour, staggering into the room: he was much intoxicated, and in this condition had just come home, as they were carrying Lady Delacour up stairs: he could not be made to understand the truth, but as soon as he heard Clarence Hervey’s voice, he insisted upon going up to _his wife’s_ dressing-room. It was a very unusual thing, but neither Champfort nor any one else could restrain him, the moment that he had formed this idea; he forced his way into the room. “What’s all this?--Colonel Lawless!” said he, addressing himself to Clarence Hervey, whom, in the confusion of his mind, he mistook for the colonel, the first object of his jealousy. “Colonel Lawless,” cried his lordship, “you are a villain. I always knew it.” “Softly!--she’s in great pain, my lord,” said Belinda, catching Lord Delacour’s arm, just as he was going to strike Clarence Hervey. She led him to the sofa where Lady Delacour lay, and uncovering her ankle, which was much swelled, showed it to him. His lordship, who was a humane man, was somewhat moved by this appeal to his remaining senses, and he began roaring as loud as he possibly could for arquebusade. Lady Delacour rested her head upon the back of the sofa, her hands moved with convulsive twitches--she was perfectly silent. Marriott was in a great bustle, running backwards and forwards for she knew not what, and continually repeating, “I wish nobody would come in here but Miss Portman and me. My lady says nobody must come in. Lord bless me! my lord here too!” “Have you any arquebusade, Marriott? Arquebusade, for your lady, directly!” cried his lordship, following her to the door of the boudoir, where she was going for some drops.