"Nay, he only is trying to cast a spell that he may retrieve his late ill-luck with the cards!" "Ah, enough of your fooleries, Sandys!" The Earl tried to turn away from them. "By Gad, there is something mysterious in this," the other was still laughing, not guessing my lord's mood. "What is the adventure?" "At least I am in no humour for any other to-night," was the swift answer. It added to the Earl's unreasonable anger that not one of them recollected or cared that my lady was buried in the church behind them. "Stand aside, sirs," he added abruptly, for they, good-humouredly, were closing round him. At this they laughed again, and Lord Sandys, who had been in Villiers Street, caught sight of the flowers my lord held. "Have ye been gathering roses--and here?" He pointed to the ghostly churchyard. "Ah, let me be," said my lord wearily. His seriousness excited their malicious merriment. They did not guess at his inward anger, nor did he allow for their light-hearted folly. Then, in a second, it happened. "Dead roses!" cried Lord Sandys, and tried to snatch them. The Earl turned without warning and struck him across the cheek with his glove. Instantly all were sobered. Lord Sandys gave a cry of rage, and drew his sword. My lord dropped his cloak the length of his arm, laid gloves and flowers on the churchyard step and unsheathed his rapier. The others moved back, ringing them round. "Why did you do that?" breathed Lord Sandys. Rose Lyndwood did not answer; his face was flushed and reckless. Their swords crossed. The veiled moonlight was confusing, and both were angered to passion. The light rapiers clashed aimlessly for a second. "Come to a better spot," cried one. "Let him take what he asked for!" exclaimed Lord Sandys, and as he spoke the Earl fell backwards on the churchyard steps. It was perhaps but five minutes since he had first met them, but one since he had drawn his sword. None of them could have told how it had happened. He had rushed wantonly into the quarrel. They were quieted and startled to see him lying there. He made an effort to laugh into their faces. "Sandys is not to blame," he gasped. One of them stooped and held him up. There was talk of a doctor, of assistance. He shook his head. "I'm done for. Get Sandys away." He tried to drag himself to a sitting posture, coughed and groaned. "Is he dying?" asked Lord Sandys, horrified. "Yes." Rose Lyndwood answered, fighting for his breath. "Susannah--and there is Marius. Not much miss--the debts----" "Can no one get some water?" cried Mr. Harding, who supported him. "Not in this church," whispered the Earl, "but at Lyndwood. Do you hear, Harding?" He sank down on the white roses, the gloves, his mantle and his sword, his gorgeous clothes sweeping the dusty cobbles. He put his hand over his beautiful face as if he would hide its distortion. "I always--believed," he murmured, "in the immortality of the soul. I don't need--the key."