he had got twenty paces or so
away, he heard Frances laugh.

He imagined that she was laughing at him. Already angry with Silas, he
halted and half turned, intending to go back and have it out with him,
then he thought better of it and went his way. He would deal with Silas
later and in some place where he could get him alone or in the presence of
men only. Pinckney had a horror of scenes, especially in the presence of
women.

Twenty minutes later he had his opportunity. He was crossing the hall from
the supper room, when he came face to face with Silas. They were alone.

"Excuse me," said Richard Pinckney, halting in front of the other, "I want
a word with you."

"Certainly," answered Silas, guessing at once what was coming.

"You made some remarks about me to Miss Rhett this evening," went on the
other. "You coupled my name with the name of a lady in a most
unjustifiable manner and I want your explanation here and now."

"Who was the lady?" asked Silas, seemingly quite unmoved.

"Miss Berknowles."

"In what way did I couple your name with her, may I ask?"

"No, you mayn't." Richard had turned pale before the calm insolence of the
other. "You know quite well what you said and if you are a gentleman you
will apologise-- If you aren't you won't and I will deal with you in
Charleston accordingly."

Phyl was at that moment coming out of the supper room with young Reggie
Calhoun--the same who, according to Richard that morning at breakfast long
ago, was an admirer of Maria Pinckney.

She saw the two men, in profile, facing one another, and she saw Silas's
right hand, which he was holding behind his back, opening and shutting
convulsively.

She saw the blow given by Pinckney, she saw Silas step back and the knife
which he always carried, as the wasp carries its sting, suddenly in his
hand.

Then she was gripping his wrist.

Face to face with madness for a moment, holding it, fighting eye to eye.

Had she faltered, had her gaze left his for the hundredth part of a
second, he would have cast her aside and fallen upon his prey.

It was her soul that held him, her spirit--call it what you will, the
something that speaks alone through the eye.

Calhoun and Pinckney stood, during that tremendous moment, stricken,
breathless, without making the slightest movement. They saw she was
holding him by the power of her eye alone; so vividly did this fact strike
them that for a dazed moment it seemed to them that the