“Why, Julian, what’s the matter?—­unhand me, sir! let go!” (for he had got hold of her wrist.)

The passionate youth seized her hand—­that one with Charles’s ring upon it—­and would have kissed it wildly with polluting lips, had she not shrieked suddenly “Help! help!”

Instantly his other hand was roughly dashed upon her mouth—­so roughly that it almost knocked her backwards—­and the blood flowed from her wounded lip; but by a preternatural effort, the indignant Indian queen hurled the ruffian from her, flew to the bell, and kept on ringing violently.

In less than half a minute all the household was around her, headed by the startled Mrs. Tracy, who had all the while been listening in the other drawing-room:  butler, footmen, house-maids, ladies’-maids, cook, scullions, and all rushed in, thinking the house was on fire.

No need to explain by a word.  Emily, radiant in imperial charms, stood, like inspired Cassandra, flashing indignation from her eyes at the cowering caitiff on the floor.  The mother, turning all manner of colours, dropped on her knees to “poor Julian’s” assistance, affecting to believe him taken ill.  But Emily Warren, whose insulted pride vouchsafed not a word to that guilty couple, soon undeceived all parties, by addressing the butler in a voice tremulous and broken—­

“Mr. Saunders—­be so good—­as to go—­to Sir Abraham Tamworth’s—­in the square—­and request of him—­a night’s—­protection—­for a poor—­defenceless, insulted woman!”

She could hardly utter the last words for choking tears:  but immediately battling down her feelings, added, with the calmness of a heroine—­

“You are a father, Mr. Saunders—­set all this before Sir Abraham strongly, but delicately.

“Footmen! so long as that wretch is in the room, protect me, as you are men.”

And the stately beauty placed herself between the two liveried lacqueys, as Zenobia in the middle of her guards.

“Marguerite!”—­the pretty little Francaise tripped up to her—­“wipe this blood from my face.”

Beautiful, insulted creature!  I thought that I looked upon some wounded Boadicea, with her daughters extracting the arrow from her cheek.

“And now, kind Charlotte, fetch my cloak; and follow me to Prospect House, with what I may require for the night.  Till the general’s return, I stay not here one minute.”

Then, without a syllable, or a look of leave-taking, the wise and noble girl—­doubtless unconsciously remembering her early Hindoo braveries, the lines of matchlock men, the bowing slaves, the processions, and her jewelled state of old—­marched away in magnificent beauty, accompanied in silence by the whole astonished household.

Mrs. Tracy and her son were left alone:  the silly, silly mother thought him “hardly used.”  Julian, whose natural effrontery had entirely deserted him, looked like what he was—­a guilty coward:  and the mother, who had pampered up her “fine high-spirited son” to his full-grown criminality by a foolish education, really—­when she had time to think of any thing but him—­was excessively frightened.  The general would be back to-morrow, and then—­and then!—­she dreaded to picture that explosion of his wrath.