jeffray came to a halt before mr. lancelot, who flourished his hat, made his cousin a stiff bow, as though he were saluting an acknowledged enemy.

“i have the honor, sir, to wish you a very good-morning. i must apologize”—and mr. lot chuckled—“for disturbing you with the lady yonder. mr. jeffray—mr. robert beaty, permit me to introduce you to each other.”

the two gentlemen bowed with the most perfect gravity. jeffray held himself very upright after the salute, his lips compressed into a straight line.

“and for what purpose, gentlemen,” he said, striking straight at the heart of the matter, “am i indebted for the pleasure of your presence here at rodenham?”

jeffray’s composure did not appear to trouble mr. hardacre for a moment. he expected a certain measure of impudence from his cousin, seeing that he had a trim waist and a plumb figure to inspire him. lot nodded to mr. beaty, and signed to him to withdraw. the useful supernumerary received the hint in silence, and strolling away towards the end of the terrace, amused himself by staring hard at bess.

lot hardacre drew sir peter’s epistle from his pocket, and handed it to richard with a bow.

“be so good as to read it,” he said, bluntly.

jeffray, imagining its contents, broke the seal and ran his eyes rapidly over dr. jessel’s elegant sentences. he colored a little as he read the letter, the declamatory abuse spreading itself before him, the charges of cowardice and dishonor awakening in him a feeling of quiet contempt. jeffray read the letter through without one single shock of compunction or of shame. he folded it up again composedly, knowing that lot was watching him, and taking therefore a pride in flouting his cousin’s curiosity.

“i am much honored by sir peter hardacre’s bad opinion of me,” he said, tearing the letter in pieces and scattering them upon the stones.

mr. lot’s red face grew a shade redder.

“the devil you are?” he answered.

“it is very evident, sir, that a man of low character like myself, is—on your father’s showing—utterly unworthy of approaching miss hardacre with a view to matrimony.”

“then, sir, you admit the truth of the charges made in my father’s letter?”

jeffray kept his eyes fixed on his cousin’s red and lowering face.

“i recognize none of these charges,” he retorted, calmly, “for the simple reason that i feel myself justified by my own conscience. i do not love your sister, sir, i have no intention of doing her the great wrong of perjuring myself by promising to marry her.”

mr. lot took three strides to the left and three strides back again, as though setting to a partner in a dance. he turned and faced jeffray again, his eyes glinting with anger, his clinched fists quivering with the inclination to dash itself in his kinsman’s face.

“this is your answer, sir?” he said.

“my answer, lot.”

“then, sir, i call you just what you are, a most infernal scoundrel.”

jeffray, cooling in contrast to his cousin’s indignation, bowed to him, and condescended to smile.

“thanks for your bad opinion, cousin,” he said.

“cousin, damn you, don’t call me cousin! tell me who the wench is who is making play for you over here.”

jeffray drew himself instantly.

“let me advise you, sir,” he said, “to refrain from repeating an insult to a woman’s honor.”

mr. lot gave a deep, ventral laugh, flashed a contemptuous look at his cousin, and cocked his thumb towards bess.

“you needn’t talk so fine about such baggage,” he said.

“lot hardacre!”

“you can see the color of her stockings, eh? i tell you, richard jeffray, you have insulted my sister’s affections, jilted her, sir, for a mere drab. take it straight in the face.”

mr. lot’s fist lunged out suddenly, but jeffray, who had been watching for the blow, sprang back out of the reach of his cousin’s arm.

“be careful,” he said, whipping out his sword and presenting the point towards mr. lot, “i will run you through if you try any of your drayman’s methods.”

lot glared at him and felt for his sword-hilt.

“will you fight?” he roared.

“readily.”

“i’ll give you a mark to remember, sir—by gad, i will!”

jeffray bowed to him very quietly.

“permit me to call my second,” he said, “mr. richard wilson is in the library.”

“fetch him out,” growled the hero of the moment.

“the lawn below the terrace will serve us.”

jeffray turned, sword in hand, and entered the house. he crossed the hall, found wilson reading in the library, and explained the affair to him in a few words. the painter appeared distressed and by no means eager to further the quarrel. jeffray smothered his objections, appealed to him as a friend, and soon had wilson out upon the terrace. mr. beaty and lot hardacre were conferring together in undertones. on the seat at the end of the terrace sat bess, looking restless and alert about the eyes. she started up when jeffray reappeared with wilson upon the terrace, and moved some paces towards him.

jeffray, after introducing wilson to mr. robert beaty, withdrew with a slight bow and passed on to speak with bess. knowing that lot hardacre was watching him narrowly, he bore himself with all the courtliness he could command towards the girl, and pointed her back to the seat that she had just abandoned.

“i have a debt of honor to pay,” he said, with a smile.

“you are going to fight that man?”

“yes.”

“who is he? i hate him.”

“i will tell you everything afterwards. will you go into the house or stay here on the terrace?”

their eyes met, and they stood looking at each other with a mute and indescribable tenderness.

“i will stay here,” she said, at last.

“well chosen,” he answered her.

she held out her hands, stooping a little towards him, her face bathed in the dearness of her love.

“god keep you safe—”

“for your sake, bess?”

“yes, yes, for my sake, mr. richard.”

jeffray bent, took her hand, touched it momentarily with his lips. he turned and walked back to where the three gentlemen were waiting at the head of the stairway leading to the lawns. bess had gone back to her seat against the balustrade. she knelt on it, pressing her hands to her bosom, her eyes following jeffray as he passed down with the others from the terrace.

mr. beaty and dick wilson chose their ground immediately below the stairway where the old turf spread a crisp green under their feet. the swords were measured, and found to be of equal length. lot hardacre stripped off his red coat and gaudy waistcoat, gave them to his second, and rolled up his shirt-sleeves over his plump and muscular forearms. he threw his hat aside on the grass, wiped his right hand on his breeches, and took his sword from mr. beaty with a genial and meaning grin. mr. lot was at no loss for confidence and courage despite the proverbial cowardice of bullies. undoubtedly he despised jeffray, smiling rather contemptuously as he ran his eyes over his cousin’s slim and graceful figure.

jeffray had thrown aside his coat and waistcoat, and was standing facing lot, in black breeches, white silk stockings, and spotless shirt. the point of his sword rested on the grass. wilson, who was looking at him anxiously, marked the firm, compressed mouth, the alert brightness in the dark eyes, the fine pose of the sinewy and agile figure. the lad was on his mettle, and looked as quiet and dangerous as any veteran. his simple directness of movement contrasted with mr. hardacre’s shoulder-swinging swagger and all the flourish and gusto of his self-conceit.

they saluted and began. bess, leaning on the balustrading of the terrace, with her chin between her hands, watched them as though magnetized. lot hardacre had opened the attack with a series of florid and rather clumsy passes that suggested more strength and bombast than clear skill. he smiled all the time, his mouth slightly open, his blue eyes agleam. jeffray appeared in no way flustered by the hectoring vigor of his cousin’s assault. he kept his temper and took the measure of his man, parrying all thrusts with an alertness and precision that betrayed how well he had profited by his schooling at the wells.

it was not long before lot hardacre began to sweat. the expression on his round and buxom face changed remarkably. he smiled no longer, but looked puzzled and not a little impatient. who the devil would have thought that this scholar fellow could make so good a fight of it? instinctive and obstinate contempt got the better of mr. hardacre’s temper. he began to fume and swear under his breath at finding jeffray’s sword ever at point against him. what, should he, lot hardacre, be kept playing by a mere lad who could do nothing but write poetry!

losing his coolness and his self-restraint, he closed in on his cousin, and put yet more dash and spirit into his attack. even to bess’s keen but uncritical eyes it seemed that the big man was no match for jeffray in litheness and suppleness of wrist. richard was swifter, cooler, defter on his feet. he carried himself as though he could go on fencing for an hour, while lot, red and sweaty, stamped to and fro, grunting and laboring, setting his teeth, and breathing fiercely through his nostrils.

suddenly the whole method of the bout changed. jeffray’s sword began to stab and glimmer, coming at every pass within perilous nearness to his cousin’s skin. lot hardacre began to tire and give ground. he seemed flurried, bustled, winded, and out of heart. jeffray pressed him harder than before, amused by the astonished fury on his cousin’s face. he took his chance at last, and clinched the argument. feinting, he lunged in under lot’s swerving blade, and ran him through the flesh of the right breast a hand’s-breadth below the shoulder.

lot hardacre snarled like a hurt dog, staggered, and fell back against mr. beaty, who had sprung forward to catch him. a broadening patch of scarlet showed on the white shirt, and blood trickled down the wounded man’s sword-arm. he recovered himself, thrust bob beaty off with an oath, and stood on guard. jeffray, who was watching him with his point lowered, drew back and held his sword crosswise across his thigh.

“you are hard hit, lot,” he said; “you are not fit to fight again.”

mr. hardacre ground his teeth and swore at him.

“are you afraid?” he retorted.

“i warn you—”

“damn you, put your point up.”

lot made a dash at him, his mouth working, his eyes looking like the eyes of an angry dog. he thrust savagely at jeffray, laboring with his breath, blood soaking his white shirt. once his point grazed jeffray, and for the moment bess thought that the sword had passed through his body. richard, losing patience at last as he realized the sincerity of his cousin’s hate, threw more fierceness into his play, and drove at lot with swift good-will. for a minute or less there was a grim shimmering and shrilling of steel, a fine tussle fought out fiercely to a finish. lot let fly a wild thrust, missed, over-reached himself, staggered as he tried to recover. in an instant jeffray’s sword stabbed out in a flashing counter. the point smote lot full in the chest.

lot hardacre gave a sharp, savage cry, faltered, and fell back two steps. his sword wavered helplessly in the air, his knees bent under him. both beaty and wilson ran to catch him as he staggered and sank. the sword fell from his relaxed fingers. jeffray, shocked at the sight of this strong man’s agony of defeat, threw his sword away, and bent over his cousin in generous distress.

“how is it with you, lot?”

“a good quittance, and be damned to you.”

bob beaty knelt supporting lot’s shoulders and pressing his hand over the frothing wound in the man’s chest.

“my god,” he said, “what fools! we brought no surgeon.”

jeffray, who was looking down at his cousin with mute regret, turned suddenly, and, picking up lot’s gaudy waistcoat, doubled it into a pad and thrust it into beaty’s hand.

“hold it over the wound,” he said; “we must get him into the coach. drive to stott’s house at rookhurst. quick, dick, take his shoulders.”

between them they lifted lot hardacre, gray-faced and bloody, weak as a sick child, and carried him up the stairway along the terrace to the coach. a frightened and shaking serving-man opened the coach door. they lifted lot in as gently as they could, and laid him along the seat with his head resting against bob beaty’s shoulder. the serving-man slammed the door and climbed up to the seat behind the coach. the postilion whipped up his horses, and the clumsy carriage swung away on its great springs, leaving jeffray and dick wilson watching it side by side from the terrace.