“I will not commit murder.” “Who asked it? We want no help.” “But my silence is to condone it.” “You need know no more—if you are afraid.” “I know too much already—by Heaven—too much.” “These words of yours spell—traitor!” “I am not afraid of that imputation.” “Nor we of you—Mr. Caryl.” “I said only this—” “What?—no shilly-shallying.” “I will not do this thing.” “You will not?” “No—nor see it done.” “You cannot help it.” “Mr. Porter, I can endeavor to help it.” “That means—traitor!” “Your insult is powerless.” “Mr. Caryl—you are a coward.” Here Berwick, who, like every one, had been listening intently to the sharp exchange of words, interposed; “I don’t think you quite understand, Caryl—la! It has been tried before, ain’t it?” Jerome Caryl turned to the Duke. “I think you do not understand,” he said calmly. “You know, sir, that we all owe our lives to the clemency of this man whom you would assassinate?” “Bah!” said Berwick fretfully. Jerome continued steadily. “He would not even know the names—he would not even lay on us the humiliation of a pardon. He could have sent us to the gallows by the lifting of his finger.” “Well, why didn’t he do it?” demanded Berwick. “Because he was afraid, of course; because he didn’t dare touch us.” A loud assent went up; Caryl stepped back a little from his place with a gleam in his eyes. “This is not the way to win England for the Stuarts,” he said. “Traitor!” yelled Porter again, rising from his seat. “It is you who soil your cause by these vile suggestions,” flung back Jerome. Berwick rose; his narrow face crimson; he made as if to speak; but Porter, in ungovernable fury, had seized one of the candlesticks and flung it past the Duke at Jerome; as it crashed to the ground, some one drew his sword and Celia Hunt climbed onto the table, shrieking. “A pretty fellow you to talk!” she cried. “You who let the Master of Stair rob you under your nose—_I_ knew him at sight for a spy—and so did you—you canting rogue!” Jerome did not look at her, but, in the diversion she caused the whole company, glanced round the confusion for Lady Breadalbane; she had disappeared. “Speak for yourself, Caryl,” said Berwick, through the hubbub. “I ain’t believing that you wouldn’t fall in with us.” But ere Caryl could answer Porter, who had fought his way through the press, struck him full on the chest and Caryl staggering, the two men closed, struggled together, forcing each other toward the door; a yell rose from the room; Berwick gave a loud hysterical giggle; now Jerome Caryl had Porter by the collar, shaking him furiously; he flung him to the ground, instantly opened the door and darted through it. There was a bolt on the outside and he slipped it; a confusion of noise rose from within; laughter seemingly at Porter’s discomfiture; he heard Celia Hunt screaming and Berwick’s falsetto rising higher and higher. “Oh, la! ain’t it amusing! Oh, dear, oh, la!”