“This is no time for jesting, my lord,” said Gervase, gravely. “I have come to carry you to the guardhouse, where I can promise you no favourable reception. Our hearts have been sadly stirred; your life even is in danger.” “So much the more reason that we should decide this matter now. Look you, Mr. Orme, my friend and I have a difference, the nature of which I cannot now make clear to you, though it may also concern you nearly, and we have agreed to leave it to the arbitrament of chance. A few minutes more or less will not imperil the safety of the city. Pray be seated, and see how fortune deals her favours.” “Oh! this is past a jest,” cried Gervase, “I tell you, my lord, you are in deadly peril.” “And I tell you, sir, this is a matter of more importance. Nay, my good friend”--and here he held out his hand, “my mind is set on this, and I pray you to indulge me.” Though his eyes and lips laughed, there was a serious undertone in his voice, and after hesitating for a moment, Gervase finally said, “Ten minutes you may have, my lord, but with your pardon, I shall wait without. My mind is full of care and my heart is heavy as a stone. I can take no part in this. I have seen this day that which I shall not forget did I live a thousand years. Good night, Mr. Carew. My lord, you will not keep me waiting.” His steps rang along the stone pavement; then there was the sound of an opening door and the whispering of voices in the basement hall. “‘Jacob was a plain man and dwelt in tents,´” murmured De Laprade. “Come, Carew, we who tempt the fickle goddess must not sleep. Jacob yonder would filch my birthright, and I will not lose the lovely Rachel.”