as that? Was it not as though
beast had met beast in the forest between whom nothing but internecine
fight to the end was possible? But when that minute was over, and he
saw what he had done,--when the man, tumbled, dishevelled, all alump
and already bloody, was lying before him,--then he remembered who he
was himself and what it was that he had done. He was Dean Lovelace, who
had already made for himself more than enough of clerical enmity; and
this other man was the Marquis of Brotherton, whom he had perhaps
killed in his wrath, with no witness by to say a word as to the
provocation he had received.

The Marquis groaned and impotently moved an arm as though to raise
himself. At any rate, he was not dead as yet. With a desire to do what
was right now, the Dean rang the bell violently, and then stooped down
to extricate his foe. He had succeeded in raising the man and in
seating him on the floor with his head against the arm-chair before the
servant came. Had he wished to conceal anything, he could without much
increased effort have dragged the Marquis up into his chair; but he was
anxious now simply that all the truth should be known. It seemed to him
still that no one knowing the real truth would think that he had done
wrong. His child! His daughter! His sweetly innocent daughter! The man
soon rushed into the room, for the ringing of the bell had been very
violent. "Send for a doctor," said the Dean, "and send the landlord
up."

"Has my lord had a fit?" said the man, advancing into the room. He was
the servant, not of the hotel, but of the Marquis himself.

"Do as I bid you;--get a doctor and send up the landlord immediately.
It is not a fit, but his lordship has been much hurt. I knocked him
down." The Dean made the last statement slowly and firmly, under a
feeling at the moment that it became him to leave nothing concealed,
even with a servant.

"He has murdered me," groaned the Marquis. The injured one could speak
at least, and there was comfort in that. The servant rushed back to the
regions below, and the tidings were soon spread through the house.
Resident landlord there was none. There never are resident landlords in
London hotels. Scumberg was a young family of joint heirs and
heiresses, named Tomkins, who lived at Hastings, and the house was
managed by Mrs. Walker. Mrs. Walker was soon in the room, with a German
deputy manager kept to maintain the foreign Scumberg connection, and
with them sundry waiter