“And Jim won’t be long about it either,” whispered Honoria.  She had come forward quietly, and stood at Taffy’s elbow.

Sir Harry shook a finger at her and laid it on his lips.  But the old Squire did not hear.  He sat glum, pulling a whisker and keeping a sour eye on the bird, which was strutting about in rather foolish bewilderment at the pink peonies on the carpet.

“I’m giving you every chance,” he grumbled at length.

“Oh, as for that,” Sir Harry replied, equably, “have it out in the yard, if you please, on your own dunghill.”

“No.  Indoors is bad enough.”

Jim appeared just then, and turned out to be Taffy’s old enemy, the Whip, bearing the Squire’s game-cock in a basket.  He took it out; a very handsome bird, with a hackle in which gold, purple and the richest browns shone and were blended.

Sir Harry had picked up his bird and was heeling it with the long steel spurs; a very delicate process, to judge by the time occupied and the pucker on his good-tempered brow.

“Ready?” he asked at length.

Jim, who had been heeling the Squire’s bird, nodded and the pair were set down.  They ruffled and flew at each other without an instant’s hesitation.  The visitor, which five minutes before had been staring at the carpet so foolishly, was prompt enough now.  For a moment they paused, beak to beak, eye to eye, furious, with necks outstretched and hackles stiff with the rage of battle.  They began to rise and fall like two feathers tossing in the air, very quietly.  But for the soft whir of wings there was no sound in the room.  Taffy could scarcely believe they were fighting in earnest.  For a moment they seemed to touch—­to touch and no more, and for a moment only—­but in that moment the stroke was given.  The home champion fluttered down, stood on his legs for a moment, as if nothing had happened, then toppled over and lay twitching, as his conqueror strutted over him and lifted his throat to crow.

Squire Moyle rose, clutching the corner of his chair.  His mouth opened and shut, but no words came.  Sir Harry caught up his bird, whipped off his spurs, and thrust him back into the bag.  The old man dropped back, letting his chin sink on his high stock-collar.

“It serves me right.  Who shall deliver me from the wrath to come?”

“Oh! as for that—­” Sir Harry finished tying the neck of the bag, and lazily fell to fingering the setter’s ear.

The old man was muttering to himself.  Taffy looked at the dead bird, then at Honoria.  She was gazing at it too, with untroubled eyes.

“But I will be saved!  I tell you, Harry, I will! Take those birds away.  Honoria, hand me my Bible.  It’s all here”—­he tapped the heavy book—­“miracles, redemption, justification by faith—­I will have faith.  I will believe, every damned word of it!”

Sir Harry broke in with a peal of laughter.  Taffy had never heard a laugh so musical.