while he replied,--

"Methought the lady in her chamber: the destined bride, during the day,
keeps to her own apartment; 'tis the soft night that draws her forth to
interchange love-pledges and soft sayings."

"Villain!" exclaimed De Guerre with startling energy, "hold thy
blaspheming tongue, nor dare to imagine, much less express, aught of
this lady that is not pure as heaven's own firmament!"

"Oh, my good sir," said the other, "I know you now! the braggart
at my Lady Cecil's funeral--the pall-bearer--the church-yard
lounger--the----!"

"Hold, coward!" interrupted the Cavalier, grinding the words between his
teeth. "Lady, I entreat you to retire; this is no scene for you:--nay,
but you must!"

"Touch her not," exclaimed Burrell, the brutality of his vile nature
fully awakened at perceiving Walter attempt to take her hand; "touch her
not, though you are doubtless the youth to whom her heart is given."

"Forbear, sir!" ejaculated Constance; "if you have the spirit of a man,
forbear!"

"Oh, then, your passion has not been declared by words--you have spoken
by actions!" he retorted with redoubled acrimony.

The reply to this gross insult was made by the point of De Guerre's
sword resting on Burrell's breast.

"Defend yourself, or die like a vile dog!" thundered the Cavalier, and
Sir Willmott was obliged to stand on his defence.

The feelings of the woman overcame those of the heroine, and Constance
shrieked for help, when she beheld the combatants fairly engaged in a
feud where the shedding of blood appeared inevitable. Her call was
answered, but not by words; scarcely more than three or four thrusts had
been made and returned, when a stout gentleman, clad in a dark and
tight-fitting vest, strode nearly between them, and clashed the tough
blade of his broad basket-hilted sword upon their more graceful, but
less substantial, weapons, so as to strike them to the earth. Thus,
without speaking word or farther motion, he cast his eyes, first on the
one, then on the other, still holding their weapons under, more,
however, by the power of his countenance, than of his arm.

"Put up your swords!" he said at length, in a low stern voice--"put up
your swords!" he repeated; then, seeing that, though Burrell's rapier
had leaped into its rest, De Guerre retained his unsheathed, "put up
your sword, sir!" he said again in a loud tone, that sounded awfully
through the still twilight, and then stamped upon the ground with forc