The Vicomte still stood on the defensive and parried his thrusts with the greatest ease in the world. Again and again he tried to enter upon his guard, but always with the same result. Then there came a violent knocking upon the door and the sound of voices raised in alarm and expostulation. “We must end this,” cries the Vicomte deliberately parrying a thrust in tierce, and almost at the same time Carew passaged rapidly, and catching the Vicomte´s sword in his left hand, buried his own sword to the hilt in the Vicomte. The stricken man swung round, threw up his hands, and fell in a heap to the floor without uttering a sound. Gervase had left the room with contempt and indignation strongly present in his mind. It had seemed incredible to him that men should become absorbed in these trifles, surrounded by the horrors that he daily witnessed, and lose themselves wholly in this degrading passion. No doubt it was none of his business--so he told himself--but his sense of fitness revolted at it. He had reached the outer door and his hand was on the lock to open it, when he heard a door open on the staircase above, and a voice calling in low tones, “Is that Mr. Orme?” “It is I, Miss Carew,” Gervase answered, feeling that the hope of this rencontre was the real reason why he had left the Vicomte to decide his matter of importance by himself. Dorothy came down the stairs holding a taper in her hand--Gervase could see the traces of tears on her cheeks, and he was greatly struck by the change that the last week had made in her looks. Not that her beauty was in any way dimmed or diminished, but sorrow and care had set their seal upon it. “Swartz has told me the news,” she said, “and the horror of it gives me no rest. Will they not bring them into the City?” “God knows it is what we all desire,” Gervase answered, “but it is not possible. To bring them in would mean that we have fought and you have suffered for nothing; it would but make their fate ours. Londonderry must not fall.” He continued in a sad constrained tone, “I think I shall never forget till I die what I have seen today. There are children there, and babies at the breast, and tender women, and, Miss Carew, we must let them die. We dare not take them in. There is hardly food for a fortnight longer and then----” “Then,” said Dorothy, “we can die. I almost think I shall be glad to die.” “Nay,” said Gervase taking her hand, “if all were as brave and strong as you are! Macpherson says that yours is the boldest heart in the city.” “He does not know me,” Dorothy answered, withdrawing her hand with a faint gleam of her old humour kindling in her eyes; “he does not understand women. I am a poor coward. But why should I talk of myself? Will nothing be attempted to save the poor wretches who are now below the walls?”