As the gate clicked behind the Viscount and his companions, Lord Rookwood, who was in close converse with the others at the further side of the garden, advanced haughtily, bowing to Sir Francis, whom he perceived represented the interests of the young nobleman. The two, withdrawing from the others, made haste to arrange the preliminaries of the meeting. "Thy promptness is most commendable," said Rookwood, casting a look upward at the cold gray of the sky, "and 'twere well that our principals do quickly that which has brought them hither. Methinks a storm is brewing, and a fall of snow might end the matter illy." A few white flakes upon his doublet bore witness to the correctness of his prophecy. Sir Francis bowed assent. "Thou canst perceive," continued Rookwood, pointing to the strip of sward, "that good Thomas Percy has had a care to have no element of fairness lacking. Hast any objection to the spot chosen?" "I can see no catch or fault in it," replied Tillinghurst, casting his eyes over the ground, "the light is good, and there seemeth to be no advantage in position." "'Tis well!" said Rookwood, "wilt measure swords that the contest be in all fairness?" Tillinghurst complied, and the principals, casting aside their cloaks, stepped forward to the strip of sward prepared for them. The demeanor of the Viscount was serious; he well knew that in Sir Thomas Winter he had no unskilled swordsman, but a man of much experience, with wrist of steel, and a trick of fence acquired by long practice in foreign service. The face of Winter was darkened by a frown in which was blended a shadow of anxiety. The Lord of Monteagle was a famous swordsman, and it might well be that the son had learned from a good master. "Gentlemen, are you ready?" cried Rookwood drawing his rapier, as also did Sir Francis, that they might interfere should need arise. The principals saluted, stood at guard, and awaited the signal; when it was given, their blades crossed with a clash which rang out sharp and clear on the cold winter air. The hate and jealousy with which Winter regarded his young rival were intensified by the tingling blow dealt him an hour before, and from which he still suffered,--and as he was confident beyond doubt of his skill as a swordsman, he attacked with a fury which pressed his younger adversary back toward the wall, and those witnessing the contest thought to see Effingston speedily thrust through. The Viscount was, however, too adroit a fencer to yield readily to such a fate. Careful, at first, only to defend himself, he met each thrust and pass with a parry which deepened the frown on Winter's brow, and having retreated to the edge of the duelling ground, he there held his position despite the fierceness of the onslaught. Suddenly Winter's blade darted serpent-like beneath the guard of his adversary. A red stain appeared on Effingston's shoulder, and the seconds interposed their swords.