“As I hope to live,” said Mr. Carvel when the doctor was gone, “one would have thought his Excellency himself had been pinked instead of a whip of a lad, for the people who have been here.  His Lordship and Dr. Courtenay came before the hunt, and young Mr. Fotheringay, and half a score of others.  Mr. Swain is but now left to go to Baltimore on some barrister’s business.”

I was burning to learn what the rector had said to Patty, but it was plain Mr. Carvel knew nothing of this part of the story.  He had not mentioned Grafton among the callers.  I wondered what course my uncle would now pursue, that his plans to alienate me from my grandfather had failed.  And I began debating whether or not to lay the whole plot before Mr. Carvel.  Prudence bade me wait, since Grafton had not consorted with the rector openly, at least—­for more than a year.  And yet I spoke.

“Mr. Carvel!”

He stirred in his chair.

“Yes, my son.”

He had to repeat, and still I held my tongue.  Even as I hesitated there came a knock at the door, and Scipio entered, bearing candles.

“Massa Grafton, suh,” he said.

My uncle was close at his heels.  He was soberly dressed in dark brown silk, and his face wore that expression of sorrow and concern he knew how to assume at will.  After greeting his father with his usual ceremony, he came to my bedside and asked gravely how I did.

“How now, Grafton!” cried Mr. Carvel; “this is no funeral.  The lad has only a scratch, thank God!”

My uncle looked at me and forced a smile.

“Indeed I am rejoiced to find you are not worried over this matter, father,” said he.  “I am but just back from Kent to learn of it, and looked to find you in bed.”

“Why, no, sir, I am not worried.  I fought a duel in my own day,—­over a lass, it was.”

This time Grafton’s smile was not forced.

“Over a lass, was it?” he asked, and added in a tone of relief, “and how do you, nephew?”

Mr. Carvel saved me from replying.

“’Od’s life!” he cried; “no, I did not say this was over a lass.  I have heard the whole matter; how Captain Collinson, who is a disgrace to the service, brought shame upon his Majesty’s supporters, and how Richard felled the young lord instead.  I’ll be sworn, and I had been there, I myself would have run the brute through.”

My uncle did not ask for further particulars, but took a chair, and a dish of tea from Scipio.  His smug look told me plainer than words that he thought my grandfather still ignorant of my Whig sentiments.

“I often wish that this deplorable practice of duelling might be legislated against,” he remarked.  “Was there no one at the Coffee House with character enough to stop the lads?”

Here was my chance.

“Mr. Allen was there,” I said.

“A devil’s plague upon him!” shouted my grandfather, beating the floor with his stick.  “And the lying hypocrite ever crosses my path, by gad’s life!  I’ll tear his gown from his back!”