on flood swept into his pallid cheeks; his eyes rolled and
blazed with the fury of the mad.

Mr. Caryll moved away. In that quiet voice of his: "Take up your sword,"
he said to the vanquished, over his shoulder.

Wharton and Gascoigne moved towards him, without words to express the
amazement that still held Rotherby glared an instant longer without
moving. Then, doing as Mr. Caryll had bidden him, he stooped to recover
his blade. A moment he held it, looking after his departing adversary;
then with swift, silent stealth he sprang to follow. His fell intent was
written on his face.

Falgate gasped--a helpless fool--while Mainwaring hurled himself forward
to prevent the thing he saw impended. Too late. Even as he flung out his
hands to grapple with his lordship, Rotherby's arm drove straight before
him and sent his sword through the undefended back of Mr. Caryll.

All that Mr. Caryll realized at first was that he had been struck a blow
between the shoulder blades; and then, ere he could turn to inquire into
the cause, he was amazed to see some three inches of steel come through
his shirt in front. The next instant an exquisite, burning, searing
pain went through and through him as the blade was being withdrawn.
He coughed and swayed, then hurtled sideways into the arms of Major
Gascoigne. His senses swam. The turf heaved and rolled as if an
earthquake moved it; the houses fronting the square and the trees
immediately before him leaped and danced as if suddenly launched into
grotesque animation, while about him swirled a wild, incoherent noise
of voices, rising and falling, now loud, now silent, and reaching him
through a murmuring hum that surged about his ears until it shut out all
else and consciousness deserted him.

Around him, meanwhile, a wild scene was toward.

His Grace of Wharton had wrenched away the sword from Rotherby, and
mastered by an effort his own impulse to use it upon the murderer.
Captain Mainwaring--Rotherby's own second, a man of quick, fierce
passions--utterly unable to control himself, fell upon his lordship and
beat him to the ground with his hands, cursing him and heaping
abuse upon him with every blow; whilst delicate Mr. Falgate, in the
background, sick to the point of faintness, stood dabbing his lips
with his handkerchief and swearing that he would rot before he allowed
himself again to be dragged into an affair of honor.

"Ye damned cutthroat!" swore the militia captain, standing over