He glared at me, foam upon his lips. Men were between us now, — the Governor, Francis West, Master Pory, Hamor, Wynne, — and a babel of excited voices arose. The diversion I had aimed to make had been made with a vengeance. West had me by the arm. “What a murrain is all this coil about, Ralph Percy? If you hurt hair of his head, you are lost!”

The favorite broke from the Governor’s detaining hand and conciliatory speech.

“You’ll fight, sir?” he cried hoarsely.

“You know that I need not now, my lord,” I answered.

He stamped upon the ground with rage and shame; not true shame for that foul thrust, but shame for the sword upon the grass, for that which could be read in men’s