Jim, who had been heeling the Squire’s bird, nodded and the pair were set down. They ruffled and flew at each other without an instant’s hesitation. The visitor, which five minutes before had been staring at the carpet so foolishly, was prompt enough now. For a moment they paused, beak to beak, eye to eye, furious, with necks outstretched and hackles stiff with the rage of battle. They began to rise and fall like two feathers tossing in the air, very quietly. But for the soft whir of wings there was no sound in the room. Taffy could scarcely believe they were fighting in earnest. For a moment they seemed to touch--to touch and no more, and for a moment only--but in that moment the stroke was given. The home champion fluttered down, stood on his legs for a moment, as if nothing had happened, then toppled over and lay twitching, as his conqueror strutted over him and lifted his throat to crow. Squire Moyle rose, clutching the corner of his chair. His mouth opened and shut, but no words came. Sir Harry caught up his bird, whipped off his spurs, and thrust him back into the bag. The old man dropped back, letting his chin sink on his high stock-collar. “It serves me right. Who shall deliver me from the wrath to come?” “Oh! as for that--” Sir Harry finished tying the neck of the bag, and lazily fell to fingering the setter’s ear. The old man was muttering to himself. Taffy looked at the dead bird, then at Honoria. She was gazing at it too, with untroubled eyes. “But I _will_ be saved! I tell you, Harry, I _will!_ Take those birds away. Honoria, hand me my Bible. It’s all here”--he tapped the heavy book--“miracles, redemption, justification by faith--I _will_ have faith. I _will_ believe, every damned word of it!” Sir Harry broke in with a peal of laughter. Taffy had never heard a laugh so musical. The old man was adjusting his spectacles; but he took them off and laid them down, his hands shaking with rage. “You came here to taunt me”--his voice shook as his hand--“me, an old man, with no son to my house. You think, because I’m seeking higher things, there’s no fight left in us or in the parish. I tell you what; make that boy of yours strip and stand up, and I’ll back the Parson’s youngster for doubles or quits. Off with your coat, my son, and stand up to him!” Taffy turned round in a daze. He did not understand. His eyes met Honoria’s, and they were fastened on him curiously. He was white in the face; the sight of the murdered game-cock had sickened him. “He doesn’t look flourishing.” Sir Harry mimicked the Squire’s recent manner. Taffy turned with the look of a hunted animal. He did not want to fight. He hated this house and its inhabitants. The other boy was stripping off his jacket with a good-humoured smile. “I--I don’t want--” Taffy began fumbling with a button. “Please--” “Off with your coat, boy! You were game enough t’other day. If you lick en, I’ll put a new roof on your father’s church.”