It was all mighty fine to say, "Don't be alarmed." But her face was ashy, and her lips the color of lead; and she was so like death, they could not help being terribly alarmed; and now, for the first time, the duellists felt culprits; and as for fighting, every idea of such a thing went out of their heads. The rivals now were but rival nurses; and never did a lot of women make more fuss over a child than all these bloodthirsty men did over this Amazon _manquee_. They produced their legendary lore. One's grandmother had told him burnt feathers were the thing; another, from an equally venerable source, had gathered that those pink palms must be profanely slapped by the horny hand of man,--for at no less a price could resuscitation be obtained. The surgeon scorning all their legends, Griffith and Neville made hasty rushes with brandy and usquebaugh; but whether to be taken internally or externally they did not say, nor, indeed, know, but only thrust their flasks wildly on the doctor; and he declined them loftily. He melted snow in his hand, and dashed it hard in her face, and put salts close to her pretty little nostrils. And this he repeated many times without effect. But at last her lips began to turn from lead color to white, and then from white to pink, and her heavenly eyes to open again, and her mouth to murmur things pitiably small and not bearing on the matter in hand. Her cheek was still colorless, when her consciousness came back, and she found she was lying on the ground with ever so many gentlemen looking at her. At that, Modesty alarmed sent the blood at once rushing to her pale cheek. A lovely lily seemed turning to a lovely rose before their eyes. The next thing was, she hid that blushing face in her hands, and began to whimper. The surgeon encouraged her: "Nay, we are all friends," he whispered, paternally. She half parted her fingers and peered through them at Neville and Gaunt. Then she remembered all, and began to cry hysterically. New dismay of the unprofessionals! "_Now_, Gentlemen, if you will lend me your flasks," said Mr. Islip, mighty calmly. Griffith and Neville were instantly at his side, each with a flask. The surgeon administered snow and brandy. Kate sipped these, and gulped down her sobs, and at last cried composedly. But when it came to sipping brandied snow and crying comfortably, Major Rickards's anxiety gave place to curiosity. Without taking his eye off her, he beckoned Mr. Hammersley apart, and whispered,-- "Who the Deuse is it?" "Don't you know?" whispered the other in return. "Why, Mistress Peyton herself." "What! the girl it is all about? Well, I never heard of such a thing: the _causa belli_ to come _galloping_ and _swooning_ on the field of battle, and so stop the fighting! What will our ladies do next? By Heaven! she is worth fighting for, though. Which is the happy man, I wonder? She doesn't look at either of them."