honor and cool judgment, madam.  Mr. Molyneux had acted for him in the affair of Captain Badger, and was strongly prejudiced in his favor; but Mr. Molyneux, Sir Hugh, Mr. Bantison, every one of them, in short, recognized him.  In spite of his smooth face and his light hair, the adventurer Beaucaire was writ upon him amazing plain.  Look at him, madam, if he will dare the inspection.  You saw this Beaucaire well, the day of his expulsion from the rooms.  Is not this he?”

M. Beaucaire stepped close to her.  Her pale face twitched.

“Look!” he said.

“Oh, oh!” she whispered with a dry throat, and fell back in the carriage.

“Is it so?” cried the Duke.

“I do not know.—­I—­cannot tell.”

“One moment more.  I begged these gentlemen to allow me to wipe out the insult I had unhappily offered to Bath, but particularly to you.  They agreed not to forestall me or to interfere.  I left Sir John Wimpledon’s early, and arranged to give the sorry rascal a lashing under your own eyes, a satisfaction due the lady into whose presence he had dared to force himself.”

“’Noblesse oblige’?” said M. Beaucaire in a tone of gentle inquiry.

“And now, madam,” said the Duke, “I will detain you not one second longer.  I plead the good purpose of my intentions, begging you to believe that the desire to avenge a hateful outrage, next to the wish to serve you, forms the dearest motive in the heart of Winterset.”

“Bravo!” cried Beaucaire softly.

Lady Mary leaned toward him, a thriving terror in her eyes.  “It is false?” she faltered.

“Monsieur should not have been born so high.  He could have made little book’.”

“You mean it is false?” she cried breathlessly.

“’Od’s blood, is she not convinced?” broke out Mr. Bantison.  “Fellow, were you not the ambassador’s barber?”

“It is all false?” she whispered.

“The mos’ fine art, mademoiselle.  How long you think it take M. de Winterset to learn that speech after he write it out?  It is a mix of what is true and the mos’ chaste art.  Monsieur has become a man of letters.  Perhaps he may enjoy that more than the wars.  Ha, ha!”

Mr. Bantison burst into a roar of laughter.  “Do French gentlemen fight lackeys?  Ho, ho, ho!  A pretty country!  We English do as was done to-night, have our servants beat them.”

“And attend ourselves,” added M. Beaucaire, looking at the Duke, “somewhat in the background?  But, pardon,” he mocked, “that remind’ me.  Francois, return to Mr. Bantison and these gentlemen their weapons.”

“Will you answer a question?” said Molyneux mildly.

“Oh, with pleasure, monsieur.”

“Were you ever a barber?”

“No, monsieur,” laughed the young man.

“Pah!” exclaimed Bantison.  “Let me question him.  Now, fellow, a confession may save you from jail.  Do you deny you are Beaucaire?”