"Barbara!" Sir John's exclamation was almost a whisper. Lights were in the hall now, brought hastily from the room beyond. Some had been put down in the first place that offered, some were still held by the guests. Fellowes had turned to face this wild interruption, and Barbara had wrenched herself free from his arms as he did so. "A love passage!" laughed Fellowes. "Why interfere?" "He insulted me!" said Barbara. "My niece is--" "Leave this to me, Sir John," said Rosmore, laying a hand upon his shoulder. "That's right, Rosmore, and leave me to my wooing," cried Fellowes. "You cur! You shall repent this night's folly," said Rosmore. "Excellent! Excellent! You should have been a mummer. This is glorious comedy!" and Fellowes laughed aloud. "What! A hint of tragedy in it, too!" A naked sword was in Rosmore's hand. "A woman's honour must be defended," hissed Rosmore. "Gad! I'll not spoil the play for want of pantomime," cried Fellowes, still laughing. "Why don't you all laugh at such excellent fooling?" "There is no laughter in this," said Rosmore, and Fellowes' face grew suddenly serious. "This is real? You mean it?" he said. "I mean it." "Devil's whelp that you are!" Fellowes cried. "Between two scoundrels may God help the least debased." In an instant there was the ring of steel and the quick flash of the blades as the light caught them. Sir John had made a step forward to interfere, but had hesitated and stopped. No one else moved, and there was silence as steel touched steel--breathless silence. For a moment Barbara was hardly conscious of what was happening about her. It seemed only an instant ago that she had cried out, and now naked swords and the shadow of death. Lord Rosmore's face looked evil, sinister, devilish. Fellowes was flushed with wine, unsteady, taken by surprise. There came to Barbara the sudden conviction that in some manner Fellowes had fallen into a trap. He had insulted her, but the wine was the cause, and Rosmore had seized the opportunity for his own ends. She tried to speak, but could not. There was a fierce lunge, real and deadly meaning in it, an unsteady parry which barely turned swift death aside, and then a sudden low sound from several voices, and an excited shuffle of feet. Barbara had rushed forward and thrown herself between the fighters. "This is mere trickery," she cried. "You play a coward's part, my lord, fighting with a drunken man." "He insulted you--that sufficed for me." "I did not ask you to punish him," she answered. She faced Lord Rosmore, shielding Fellowes, who was behind her. Now Fellowes gently touched her arm. "Grant me your pardon, Mistress Lanison, and then let me pay the penalty," he said.