“Afraid?  Demmit, sir, didn’t I say I was Lord Bazelhurst?  Of the Guards, sir, and the Seventy-first?  Conf—­”

“You come over and get the watch and then see if you can get back to the horse and mount before I get to the log.  If I beat you there, you lose.  How’s that?”

“I decline to make a fool of myself.  Either you will restore my watch to me, or I shall instantly go before the authorities and take out a warrant.  I came to see you on business, sir, not folly.  Lady Bazelhurst herself would have come had I been otherwise occupied, and I want to assure you of her contempt.  You are a disgrace to her countrymen.  If you ever put foot on our land I shall have you thrown into the river.  Demmit, sir, it’s no laughing matter.  My watch, sir.”

“Come and get it.”

“Scalawag!”

“By George, do you know if you get too personal I will come over there.”  Randolph Shaw advanced with a threatening scowl.

“Ha, ha!” laughed his lordship shrilly; “I dare you!” He turned his horse’s head for home and moved off a yard or more.  “Whoa!  Curse you!  This is the demdest horse to manage I’ve ever owned.  Stand still, confound you!  Whoa!”

“He’ll stand if you stop licking him.”

“Halloa!  Hey, Bazelhurst!” came a far distant voice.  The adversaries glanced down the road and beheld two horsemen approaching from Bazelhurst Villa—­the duke and the count.

“By Jove!” muttered his lordship, suddenly deciding that it would not be convenient for them to appear on the scene at its present stage.  “My friends are calling me.  Her ladyship doubtless is near at hand.  She rides, you know—­I mean dem you!  Wouldn’t have her see you for a fortune.  Not another word, sir!  You have my orders.  Stay off or I’ll—­throw you off!” This last threat was almost shrieked and was plainly heard by the two horsemen.

“By Jove, he’s facing the fellow,” said the duke to the count.

“Ees eet Shaw?  Parbleu!”

“I’ll send some one for that watch.  Don’t you dare to touch it,” said his lordship in tones barely audible.  Then he loped off to meet his friends and turn them back before they came too close for comfort.  Randolph Shaw laughed heartily as he watched the retreat.  Seeing the newcomers halt and then turn abruptly back into their tracks he picked up the watch and strolled off into the woods, taking a short out for the dirt road which led up to his house.

“I had him begging for mercy,” explained his lordship as he rode along.  “I was on his land for half an hour before he would come within speaking distance.  Come along.  I need a drink.”

Young Mr. Shaw came to the road in due time and paused, after his climb, to rest on a stone at the wayside.  He was still a mile from home and in the loneliest part of his domain.  The Bazelhurst line was scarcely a quarter of a mile behind him.  Trees and underbrush grew thick and impenetrable alongside the narrow, winding road; the light of heaven found it difficult to struggle through to the highway below.  Picturesque but lonely and sombre indeed were his surroundings.