“If you please, sir,” said the man, not without arrogance, “we're come to take Mr. Day home.” “Tell your mistress,” returned my uncle, “that Mr. Day has expressed no desire to return, and is much too unwell to be informed of her ladyship's wish.” “Begging your pardon, sir,” said the man, “we have her ladyship's orders to bring him. We'll take every possible care of him. The carriage is an extra-easy one, and I'll sit inside with the young gentleman myself. If he ain't right in his head, he'll never know nothink till he comes to himself in his own bed.” My uncle had let the man talk, but his anger was fast rising. “I cannot let him go. I would not send a beggar to the hospital in the state he is in.” “But, indeed, sir, you must! We have our orders.” “If you fancy I will dismiss a guest of mine at the order of any human being, were it the queen's own majesty,” said my uncle--I heard the words, and with my mind's eyes saw the blue flash of his as he said them--“you will find yourself mistaken.” “I'm sorry,” said the man quietly, “but I have my orders! Let me pass, please. It is my business to find the young gentleman, and take him home. No one can have the right to keep him against his mother's will, especially when he's not in a fit state to judge for himself.” “Happily I am in a fit state to judge for him,” said my uncle, coldly. “I dare not go back without him. Let me pass,” he returned, raising his voice a little, and approaching the door as if he would force his way. I ought to have mentioned that, as my uncle went to the door, he took from a rack in the hall a whip with a bamboo stock, which he generally carried when he rode. His answer to the man was a smart, though left-handed blow with the stock across his face: they were too near for the thong. He staggered back, and stood holding his hand to his face. His fellow-servants, who, during the colloquy, had looked on with gentlemanlike imperturbability, made a simultaneous step forward. My uncle sent the thong with a hiss about their ears. They sprang toward him in a fury, but halted immediately and recoiled. He had drawn a small swordlike weapon, which I did not know to be there, from the stock of the whip. He gave one swift glance behind him. I was in the hall at his back. “Shut the door, Orba,” he cried. I shut him out, and ran to a window in the little drawing-room, which commanded the door. Never had I seen him look as now--his pale face pale no longer, but flushed with anger. Neither, indeed, until that moment had I ever seen the _natural_ look of anger, the expression of _pure_ anger. There was nothing mean or ugly in it--not an atom of hate. But how his eyes blazed! “Go back,” he cried, in a voice far more stern than loud. “If one of you set foot on the lowest step, and I will run him through.”