Sir Francis gave a short laugh. "You have confessed too much, madam. It has not increased my respect for Lord Lyndwood, nor altered my intentions." She clasped her hands in an agony. "I implore you, if you would not kill me, do not send that challenge." "You are very tender of his safety," replied Sir Francis, moving back from her. "But take courage, madam; men like my lord are usually skilled with sword and pistol." Miss Boyle shrank down on to the seat. "You insult me, Francis--Francis!" "What of me? Do you think me wood or stone? And what I say, I mean. Lord Lyndwood is a successful duellist." "Can you think I want _you_ hurt," she cried frantically, "and by _him_?" "You would not, I think, grieve overmuch, madam," he answered bitterly. "I have been sorry fool enough to think I might one day win your regard, and you tell me this! It is very well. I will not distress you with my presence." But she sprang up and crossed his path as he was leaving her. "For God's sake, Francis, listen to me. Do not refuse to listen to me now. I have tried to be honest with you from the first." She suddenly slipped to her knees on the path and took his sword hand. "Have some pity, Francis," and she broke into wild tears. He gave a great exclamation to see her at his feet, and raised her sharply. "This should be to my Lord Lyndwood," he said wildly, "but you can have no cause to kneel to me." She crouched away from him on the seat where he placed her and buried her face in her hands. "You do not understand," she gasped. "I would not have believed this." "Nor I, madam," he answered. "That a man like my lord should be _your_ choice!" She raised her distorted face and struggled with sobs, pressing her hands to her eyes. Sir Francis watched her for a moment. "Shall I see you back to the house?" he asked in a restrained voice. Miss Boyle shuddered into a sudden calm. "I would thank you to leave me." "Good-night, then, madam." She looked at him with utter reproach and despair. "God forgive you, Francis!" He left her without a word or a backward look towards the seat where she sat dumbly weeping. CHAPTER X THE COUNTESS AT BAY The Countess Lavinia sat alone by the light of a solitary candle in the great drawing-room of Lyndwood House; it was four in the morning, and she had been an hour back from the masquerade; over her chair hung the brilliant domino, and her dress, even in this light, glimmered with the sheen of a jewel. She leant back in the heavily brocaded chair, her small hands resting on the arms, her head turned towards the open long windows where the dark silk curtains slightly stirred in the night breeze. On the gilt table beside her rested an open letter.