On this last word their swords rose and clashed. “Did you think,” breathed Sir John passionately, above the sword play, “that we had not men that would do for England what you do for France—did you not reckon that we might risk and dare something to keep what we had now—as well as you to regain what you had lost—did you think we were fools or cowards? You and your crew of broken schemers—you and your damned French king—ah!” He was rapidly forcing his adversary back against the wall. Sir Perseus’s hurried defense could not cope with the fury of his attack; he was the stronger man, the better swordsman; Sir Perseus backed desperately into the window-seat. “Fools we’ve been—fools,” he muttered, white-lipped. “Yes, fools,” flashed the Master of Stair. “To think you could fit the Pope’s yoke about England’s neck again or give us back a King of follies we flung to make Europe sport—so—” Their swords crossed close to the hilt; Sir Perseus slipped and fell to his knees in the shadows of the window. “Sir—on your knees—” said Sir John. “Take back your lies—” Sir Perseus, desperate, tried to catch at the descending sword, tried to rise, to cry out, but Sir John’s thrust went through his feeble guard and his blade quivered at his throat. “Which King?” cried the Master of Stair. “Which cause? And what think you now of Lady Dalrymple’s champion?” With that Sir Perseus struggled up, slipped forward and the point of the Master’s sword went a hand’s-breadth into his breast. He went heavily onto his side and Sir John stepped back, elate and passionate; slipping his sword back with a lift of his shoulders. “Do you see me, Jacobite?” he said scornfully. “Do you see this?” He snatched up the pamphlets, three or four at a time, and thrust them into the candle flame. As they flared up in his hand he flung them on the hearth and set his heel on the ashes; he turned, looked at the prone man. “Do you see?” he repeated. “Do you see, dog, what I make of your work?” Sir Perseus made a faint movement. The Master of Stair flung the last papers onto the fire, then crossed to his prostrate enemy. “I might have kept you for Tyburn—where your friends will go,” he said, looking down at him with the candle in his hand. “The friends whose names you have in that paper—” He dropped to one knee and turned Sir Perseus over; at this the Jacobite moaned and clutched his fingers together. Sir John smiled as he drew the leathern case from the blood-stained shirt. “I have your plot in the hollow of my hand,” said the Master of Stair, and flashed the candle into the ashy face of Sir Perseus, who stared up speechlessly. “You!” he said, still at the white heat of his fury, “you would sell us to the French! You would utter foul lies of me and mine! My God, Jacobite, I would you might live to be hanged!”