As this final word left Mortimer’s lips, Lord Ashley’s face in turn became suffused with rage. With all the faults, even crimes into which his ambition had led him in the course of his pyramidal career, one virtue was yet left him, that of physical courage. With a snarl of rage, he turned sharply and bounded across the room to where his sword hung. Back he ran, drawing the weapon and flinging the scabbard to one side as he advanced on Mortimer, awaiting him with drawn blade and the light of battle in his eyes. Crouched in one corner of the divan, moaning and hysterical, lay Dorothy. The swords crossed with a clash. Mortimer was widely famed in the service for his skill as a swordsman, but upon this occasion he was fairly matched, and rarely could there have been seen a finer exhibition of swordsmanship. There were lightning feints and thrusts and parries, brilliant grand assaults and equally brilliant defenses upon either side. The black eyes of Ashley glared into the blue eyes of Mortimer, and each pair of eyes flashed forth the murder which was in the hearts behind them. Backward and forward they advanced and retreated, feinting and thrusting, slashing and parrying. At first, the rage which possessed Mortimer had rendered him less cool and wary than was to be desired, and so placed him at a slight disadvantage. Twice Ashley managed to touch lightly and these wounds, slight as they were, served as a vent for Mortimer’s overwrought feelings and lent to him, in some degree, the necessary coolness and caution. He could feel the blood trickling down his sleeve, as he skillfully parried a fierce assault. The tingling of the wounds in arm and shoulder came pleasurably to his overwrought spirit. Suddenly he feinted toward the neck. Up flew Ashley’s weapon in defense. Then, swift as a shaft of light, Mortimer’s sword-arm shot out in a straight and deadly thrust. It passed just under Ashley’s guard, and the point of Mortimer’s sword went home just below the median line. Such was the force and fury of the thrust that Mortimer’s blade ran through to the hilt. With an upward fling of the arms, Ashley crashed backward to the floor, in a heap. CHAPTER IX THE LAST STAND OF THE GUARDS A murmur--faint at first--gradually swelling until it merged into a positive cry of alarm! A strange confusion without the gates, which rapidly communicated to the grounds within; the sharp blasts of a bugle; shouts of command; the movements of men; cries, confusion--then a panic among the guests and a promiscuous dash to gain the shelter of the mansion! It all came with the vividness and rapidity of a thunderbolt!