ding, "you have not the right--you have not
the power so to proceed against me. A man of my quality is not to be
shot without a trial."

"You can 'ang if you prefer," said Feversham indifferently, drawing out
the ends of his cravat and smoothing them down upon his breast. He faced
about briskly. "Give me t'at coat, Belmont. His Majesty 'ave empower me
to 'ang or shoot any gentlemens of t'e partie of t'e Duc t'e Monmoot' on
t'e spot. I say t'at for your satisfaction. And look, I am desolate' to
be so quick wit' you, but please to consider t'e circumstance. T'e enemy
go to attack. Wentwort' must go to his regimen', and my ot'er
officers are all occupi'. You comprehen' I 'ave not t'e time to spare
you--n'est-ce-pas?"--Wentworth's hand touched Wilding on the shoulder.
He was standing with head slightly bowed, his brows knit in thought. He
looked round at the touch, sighed and smiled.

Belmont held the coat for his master, who slipped into it, and flung
at Wilding what was intended for a consolatory sop. "It is fortune de
guerre, Mistaire Wilding. I am desolate'; but it is fortune of t'e war."

"May it be less fortunate for your lordship, then," said Wilding dryly,
and was on the point of turning, when Ruth's voice came in a loud cry to
startle him and to quicken his pulses.

"My lord!" It was a cry of utter anguish.

Feversham, settling his gold-laced coat comfortably to his figure,
looked at her. "Madame?" said he.

But she had nothing to say. She stood, deathly white, slightly bent
forward, one hand wringing the other, her eyes almost wild, her bosom
heaving frantically.

"Hum!" said Feversham, and he loosened and removed the scarf from his
head. He shrugged slightly and looked at Wentworth. "Finissons!" said
he.

The word and the look snapped the trammels that bound Ruth's speech.

"Five minutes, my lord!" she cried imploringly. "Give him five
minutes--and me, my lord!"

Wilding, deeply shaken, trembled now as he awaited Feversham's reply.

The Frenchman seemed to waver. "Bien," he began, spreading his hands.
And in that moment a shot rang out in the night and startled the whole
company. Feversham threw back his head; the signs of yielding left his
face. "Ha!" he cried. "T'ey are arrive." He snatched his wig from his
lacquey's hands, donned it, and turned again an instant to the mirror
to adjust the great curls. "Quick, Wentwort'! T'ere is no more time now.
Make Mistaire Wilding be shot at once. T'en to your