“No; thank heaven!” her kinsman said.  “The blood of that noble heart doth not stain my sword!  In its last hour it was faithful to thee, Beatrix Esmond.  Vain and cruel woman! kneel and thank the awful heaven which awards life and death, and chastises pride, that the noble Hamilton died true to you; at least that ’twas not your quarrel, or your pride, or your wicked vanity, that drove him to his fate.  He died by the bloody sword which already had drank your own father’s blood.  O woman, O sister! to that sad field where two corpses are lying—­for the murderer died too by the hand of the man he slew—­can you bring no mourners but your revenge and your vanity?  God help and pardon thee, Beatrix, as he brings this awful punishment to your hard and rebellious heart.”

Esmond had scarce done speaking, when his mistress came in.  The colloquy between him and Beatrix had lasted but a few minutes, during which time Esmond’s servant had carried the disastrous news through the household.  The army of Vanity Fair, waiting without, gathered up all their fripperies and fled aghast.  Tender Lady Castlewood had been in talk above with Dean Atterbury, the pious creature’s almoner and director; and the Dean had entered with her as a physician whose place was at a sick-bed.  Beatrix’s mother looked at Esmond and ran towards her daughter, with a pale face and open heart and hands, all kindness and pity.  But Beatrix passed her by, nor would she have any of the medicaments of the spiritual physician.  “I am best in my own room and by myself,” she said.  Her eyes were quite dry; nor did Esmond ever see them otherwise, save once, in respect to that grief.  She gave him a cold hand as she went out:  “Thank you, brother,” she said, in a low voice, and with a simplicity more touching than tears; “all you have said is true and kind, and I will go away and ask pardon.”  The three others remained behind, and talked over the dreadful story.  It affected Dr. Atterbury more even than us, as it seemed.  The death of Mohun, her husband’s murderer, was more awful to my mistress than even the Duke’s unhappy end.  Esmond gave at length what particulars he knew of their quarrel, and the cause of it.  The two noblemen had long been at war with respect to the Lord Gerard’s property, whose two daughters my Lord Duke and Mohun had married.  They had met by appointment that day at the lawyer’s in Lincoln’s Inn Fields; had words which, though they appeared very trifling to those who heard them, were not so to men exasperated by long and previous enmity.  Mohun asked my Lord Duke where he could see his Grace’s friends, and within an hour had sent two of his own to arrange this deadly duel.  It was pursued with such fierceness, and sprung from so trifling a cause, that all men agreed at the time that there was a party, of which these three notorious brawlers were but agents, who desired to take Duke Hamilton’s life away.  They fought three on a side, as in that tragic meeting