“Richard, Richard, will you never learn prudence?  What is it you speak of?”

I drew my sword and laid it upon the table.

“I mean to spit that eel of a rector,” said I, “or he will bear a slap in the face.  And you must see fair play.”

Singleton seized my coat, at the same time grasping the hilt of my sword with the other hand.  But neither my words nor my action had gone unnoticed by the other end of the room.  The company there fell silent awhile, and then we heard Captain Collinson talking in even, drawling tones.

“’Tis strange,” said he, “what hot sparks a man meets in these colonies.  They should be stamped out.  His Majesty pampers these d—­d Americans, is too lenient by far.  Gentlemen, this is how I would indulge them!” He raised a closed fist and brought it down on the board.

He spoke to Tories, but he forgot that Tories were Americans.  In those days only the meanest of the King’s party would listen to such without protest from an Englishman.  But some of the meaner sort were there:  Philip and Tom laughed, and Mr. Allen, and my Lord’s sycophants.  Fotheringay and some others of sense shook their heads one to another, comprehending that Captain Collinson was somewhat gone in wine.  For, indeed, he had not strayed far from the sideboard at the assembly.  Comyn made a motion to rise.

“It is already past three bells, sir, and a hunt to-morrow,” he said.

“From bottle to saddle, and from saddle to bottle, my Lord.  We must have our pleasure ashore, and sleep at sea,” and the captain tipped his flask with a leer.  He turned his eye uncertainly first on me, then on my Lord.  “We are lately from Boston, gentlemen, that charnel-house of treason, and before we leave, my Lord, I must tell them how Mr. Robinson of the customs served that dog Otis, in the British Coffee House.  God’s word, ’twas as good as a play.”

I know not how many got to their feet at that, for the story of the cowardly beating of Mr. Otis by Robinson and the army officers had swept over the colonies, burning like a flame all true-hearted men, Tory and Whig alike.  I wrested my sword from Singleton’s hold, and in a trice I had reached the captain over chairs and table, tearing myself from Fotheringay on the way.  I struck a blow that measured a man on the floor.  Then I drew back, amazed.

I had hit Lord Comyn instead!  The captain stood a yard beyond me.

The thing had been so deftly done by the rector of St. Anne’s—­Comyn jostled at the proper moment between me and Collinson—­that none save me guessed beyond an accident; least of all my Lord Comyn himself.  He was up again directly and his sword drawn, addressing me.

“Bear witness, my Lord, that I have no desire to fight with you,” said I, with what coolness I could muster.  “But there is one here I would give much for a chance to run through.”

And I made a step toward Mr. Allen with such a purpose in my face and movements that he could not mistake.  I saw the blood go from his face; yet he was no coward to physical violence.  But he (or I?) was saved by the Satan’s luck that followed him, for my Lord stepped in between us with a bow, his cheek red where I had struck him.