“Indeed, and on my soul, you are wrong, sir,” Esmond cried.

“She takes letters from him,” cries my lord—­“look here, Harry,” and he pulled out a paper with a brown stain of blood upon it.  “It fell from him that day he wasn’t killed.  One of the grooms picked it up from the ground and gave it me.  Here it is in their d—­d comedy jargon.  ’Divine Gloriana—­Why look so coldly on your slave who adores you?  Have you no compassion on the tortures you have seen me suffering?  Do you vouchsafe no reply to billets that are written with the blood of my heart.’  She had more letters from him.”

“But she answered none,” cries Esmond.

“That’s not Mohun’s fault,” says my lord, “and I will be revenged on him, as God’s in heaven, I will.”

“For a light word or two, will you risk your lady’s honor and your family’s happiness, my lord?” Esmond interposed beseechingly.

“Psha—­there shall be no question of my wife’s honor,” said my lord; “we can quarrel on plenty of grounds beside.  If I live, that villain will be punished; if I fall, my family will be only the better:  there will only be a spendthrift the less to keep in the world:  and Frank has better teaching than his father.  My mind is made up, Harry Esmond, and whatever the event is, I am easy about it.  I leave my wife and you as guardians to the children.”

Seeing that my lord was bent upon pursuing this quarrel, and that no entreaties would draw him from it, Harry Esmond (then of a hotter and more impetuous nature than now, when care, and reflection, and gray hairs have calmed him) thought it was his duty to stand by his kind, generous patron, and said, “My lord, if you are determined upon war, you must not go into it alone.  ’Tis the duty of our house to stand by its chief; and I should neither forgive myself nor you if you did not call me, or I should be absent from you at a moment of danger.”

“Why, Harry, my poor boy, you are bred for a parson,” says my lord, taking Esmond by the hand very kindly; “and it were a great pity that you should meddle in the matter.”

“Your lordship thought of being a churchman once,” Harry answered, “and your father’s orders did not prevent him fighting at Castlewood against the Roundheads.  Your enemies are mine, sir; I can use the foils, as you have seen, indifferently well, and don’t think I shall be afraid when the buttons are taken off ’em.”  And then Harry explained, with some blushes and hesitation (for the matter was delicate, and he feared lest, by having put himself forward in the quarrel, he might have offended his patron), how he had himself expostulated with the Lord Mohun, and proposed to measure swords with him if need were, and he could not be got to withdraw peaceably in this dispute.  “And I should have beat him, sir,” says Harry, laughing.  “He never could parry that botte I brought from Cambridge.  Let us have half an hour of it, and rehearse—­I can teach it your lordship:  ’tis the most delicate point in the world, and if you miss it, your adversary’s sword is through you.”