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But what am I saying? Her poor coquetries did not deceive me, but she never meant them to deceive me. They accomplished, after all, just that for which she intended them. They deceived and maddened her half-drunken lout of a husband. Her dress, too, was something shameless. She wore above her scarlet skirt (which I verily believe was the same she had ridden in) a bodice of the same bright colour, low as a maid-of-honour’s, that displayed her young neck and bust. About her neck she had fastened a string of garnets. She had loaded her fingers with old-fashioned rings, of which the very dullness made me wince to see them employed in this sorry service. And I guessed that before my entrance this unusual finery had provoked her husband to fury.

A length of table lay between us and him. He sat silent, regarding us under lowered brows, eating little, draining glass after glass. Angry though he was, her voice seemed to lay a spell on him. She talked of a thousand things, but especially of the Parliament campaign, plying me with question after question–of our numbers, our discipline, our hardships during the past three weeks, of our general’s plan of escape, and, in particular, of the part I had borne in it. And when I answered she listened with smiles, as though King and Parliament lay balanced in her affections. And this was the termagant that a few hours ago had ridden us down and trampled across poor Hutson’s body!

All this I took at its true value, answering her with steady politeness, telling myself that as her purpose was to goad her husband, so no word of mine should give him an excuse for an outbreak. It takes two to make a quarrel, they say. But when three are mixed up in it (and one a woman), the third cannot always count on remaining passive.

I had managed to tide over the meal with fair success. We had reached the dessert, and Pascoe (whose presence may have laid some restraint upon his master) had withdrawn. A dish of pears lay before Lady Glynn, and she asked me to peel one for her. I know not if this simple request laid the last straw on Sir Luke’s endurance, but he filled his glass again and said with brutal insolence,–

‘You are fortunate, Captain Medhope, in exciting my wife’s interest. I assure you that until your gallantry bewitched her, she had been used to speak of all rebels as cowards in grain.’

‘I hope, Sir Luke,’ said I, ‘you, with experience of us, have tried to teach her better.’

‘In faith, no,’ he replied yet more brutally, backing his sneer with a laugh. ‘I saw no reason for that.’

‘And yet,’ said I deliberately, peeling my pear, ‘you told me to-day that something might be said even for such a man as your friend Chester.’

He jumped up with an oath. Yet I believe he might even now have restrained himself had not his wife–and with a face as pale as a ghost’s–laid a hand on my arm.

‘I had forgotten your wound,’ she said, ignoring her husband. ‘You handle the knife awkwardly. Let me cut the fruit and we will share.’

With a turn of the hand Sir Luke hurled back his chair, and it fell with a crash.

‘By God, Kate! if you have hired this man, he shall murder first and do his love-making afterwards. Nay, but I’ll stop that, too. Look first to yourself, madame!’

He had whipped out his sword and was actually running upon her before I could get mine clear. But I was in time to beat down his point and then–for he was slow-witted and three-parts drunk–with a trick of wrist that luckily required little strength, I disarmed him. His sword struck the farther edge of the table, smashed a decanter of wine and dropped to the floor.