and threw himself upon Mexia, dragging the bulky form from the table and hurling it to the floor.  Weaponless, the assaulter had used his hands, and now with a knee upon Mexia’s breast he strove to throttle him.  When, Spanish and English, those that were nearest of Don Alonzo’s guests were upon him, the face that he turned over his shoulder showed an intolerable white fury of wrath.  “Thy sword, John Nevil!” he gasped.  “Thou seest I wear none!  Arden, thou’rt no friend of mine if thou flingst me not thy dagger!...  Ah dog! that companied with the hell-hound of the pack, loll thy tongue out now!  Let thy eyeballs start from the socket—­”

When the two men were separated, the one lay huddled and unconscious against his chair, and the other stood with iron composure, glancing from the unconscious envoy to his host Alonzo Brava.  “I know not who you are, senor,” spoke the latter, with anger hardly controlled, “but you have broken truce and done bodily injury to my guest, who not being able at the moment to speak for himself—­”

“Your pardon, senor, for any discourtesy towards my host,” answered Ferne.  “And I would give you satisfaction here and now if—­if—­” He looked down upon his empty hands.  The gesture was seen of all.  Made by him, it came as one of those slight acts which have a power to pierce the heart and enlighten the understanding.  Unconscious as it was, the movement rent away the veil of four years, broke any remnant of the spell that was upon the English, set him high and clear before them—­the peer of Francis Drake, of John Nevil, of Raleigh and of Sidney.  This was Sir Mortimer Ferne, and there was that which he lacked!  Up and down the room there ran a sudden sound of steel drawn swiftly from metal, leather, or velvet sheaths.  “My sword, Sir Mortimer Ferne!” “Mine!” “And mine!” “Do mine honor, Sir Mortimer Ferne!” “Sir Mortimer Ferne, take mine!”

Ferne’s hand closed upon the hilt which Nevil had silently offered, and he turned to salute his antagonist, whose pallor now matched his own.  “Are you that English knight?” demanded Brava with dry lips.  “Then in courtesy alone will we cross blades—­no more!”

The steel clashed, the points fell, and Spaniard and Englishman bowed gravely each to the other.  “I thank you,” said Ferne hoarsely.  “With your permission, senor, I will say good-night.  You will understand, I think, that I would be alone.”

“That we must all understand,” said Alonzo Brava.  “Our good wishes travel with you, senor.”

Sir Mortimer turned, and from the younger, more heedless adventurers broke a ringing shout, a repeated calling of his name until it echoed from the lofty roof, but his friends spoke not to him, only made an aisle through which he might pass.  His arm was raised, Nevil’s sword a gleaming line along the dark velvet of his sleeve.  The face seen below the lifted arm was very strange, written over with a thousand meanings.  The poise of the figure and the light upon the sword increased the effect of height, the effect of the one-night-whitened hair.  There was, moreover, the gleam and shadow of the countenance, evident forgetfulness of time or place, the desire of the soul to be out with night and storm and miracles.  The English drew farther back, and he went by them like an apparition.