’In and out of the chamber I went with one thing or another, and every time I passed Mr. Beauclerc’s room I grew more and more frightened; and, truth to say, I was a scared man, and I don’t know how I got through my business; every minute expecting to hear the outcry from the dead man’s room.

’Mr. Edwards had an appointment, he said—­nothing good, you may be sure—­they were a rake-helly set—­saving your presence.  Neither he nor my lord had lost, I believe, anything to signify to one another; and my lord, your father, made no difficulty about his going away, but began to call again for Mr. Beauclerc, and to curse him—­as a half-drunk man will, making a power of noise; and, “Where’s he gone to?” and, “Where’s his room?” and, “——­ him, he shall play, or fight me.”  You see, Sir, he had lost right and left that time, and was an angry man, and the liquor made him half mad; and I don’t think he knew rightly what he was doing.  And out on the lobby with him swearing he should give him his revenge, or he’d know the reason why.

“Where’s Mr. Beauclerc’s room?” he shouts to me, as if he’d strike me; I did not care a rush about that, but I was afraid to say—­it stuck in my throat like—­and I stared at Mr. Archer; and he calls to the chamber-maid, that was going up stairs, “Where does Mr. Beauclerc lie?” and she, knowing him, says at once, “The Flower de luce,” and pointed to the room; and with that, my lord staggered up to the door, with his drawn sword in hand, bawling on him to come out, and fumbling with the pin; he could not open it; so he knocked it open with a kick, and in with him, and Mr. Archer at his elbow, soothing him like; and I, I don’t know how—­behind him.

’By this time he had worked himself into a mad passion, and says he, “Curse your foxing—­if you won’t play like a man, you may die like a dog.”  I think ’twas them words ruined him; the chamber-maid heard them outside; and he struck Mr. Beauclerc half-a-dozen blows with the side of the small-sword across the body, here and there, quite unsteady; and “Hold, my lord, you’ve hurt him,” cries Mr. Archer, as loud as he could cry.  “Put up your sword for Heaven’s sake,” and he makes a sort of scuffle with my lord, in a friendly way, to disarm him, and push him away, and “Throw down the coverlet and see where he’s wounded,” says he to me; and so I did, and there was a great pool of blood—­we knew all about that—­and my lord looked shocked when he seen it.  “I did not mean that,” says my lord; “but,” says he, with a sulky curse, “he’s well served.”

’I don’t know whether Glascock was in the room or not all this while, maybe he was; at any rate, he swore to it afterwards; but you’ve read the trial, I warrant.  The room was soon full of people.  The dead man was still warm—­’twas well for us.  So they raised him up; and one was for trying one thing, and another; and my lord was sitting stupid-like all this time by the wall; and up he gets, and says he, “I hope he’s not dead, but if he be, upon my honour, ’tis an accident—­no more.  I call Heaven to witness, and the persons who are now present; and pledge my sacred honour, as a peer, I meant no more than a blow or two.”