The men, forming in two rows, drew their rapiers with a flourish, and, crossing them overhead, made an arch of steel under which the women must pass.  Haward’s blade touched that of an old acquaintance.  “I have been leaning upon the back of a lady’s chair,” said the latter gruffly, under cover of the music and the clashing steel,—­“a lady dressed in rose color, who’s as generous (to all save one poor devil) as she is fair.  I promised her I would take her message; the Lord knows I would go to the bottom of the sea to give her pleasure!  She says that you are not yourself; begs that you will—­go quietly away”—­

An exclamation from the man next him, and a loud murmur mixed with some laughter from those in the crowded room who were watching the dancers, caused the gentleman to break off in the middle of his message.  He glanced over his shoulder; then, with a shrug, turned to his vis-a-vis in white satin.  “Now you see that ’twill not answer,—­not in Virginia.  The women—­bless them!—­have a way of cutting Gordian knots.”

A score of ladies, one treading in the footsteps of another, should have passed beneath the flashing swords.  But there had thrust itself into their company a plague spot, and the girl in green taffeta and a matron in silver brocade, between whom stood the hateful presence, indignantly stepped out of line and declined to dance.  The fear of infection spreading like wildfire, the ranks refused to close, and the company was thrown into confusion.  Suddenly the girl in green, by nature a leader of her kind, walked away, with a toss of her head, from the huddle of those who were uncertain what to do, and joined her friends among the spectators, who received her with acclaim.  The sound and her example were warranty enough for the cohort she had quitted.  A moment, and it was in virtuous retreat, and the dance was broken up.

The gentlemen, who saw themselves summarily deserted, abruptly lowered their swords.  One laughed; another, flown with wine, gave utterance to some coarse pleasantry; a third called to the musicians to stop the music.  Darden’s Audrey stood alone, brave in her beautiful borrowed dress and the color that could not leave her cheeks.  But her lips had whitened, the smile was gone, and her eyes were like those of a hunted deer.  She looked mutely about her:  how could she understand, who trusted so completely, who lived in a labyrinth without a clue, who had built her dream world so securely that she had left no way of egress for herself?  These were cruel people!  She was mad to get away, to tear off this strange dress, to fling herself down in the darkness, in the woods, hiding her face against the earth!  But though she was only Audrey and so poor a thing, she had for her portion a dignity and fineness of nature that was a stay to her steps.  Barbara, though not so poor and humble a maid, might have burst into tears, and run crying from the room and the house; but to do that Audrey would have been ashamed.