Thus, for the second time, the weapon of the renowned master of Strawberry was knocked from his hand at a single stroke of his strange adversary.  I should like to describe John Paul as he made that speech, —­for ’twas not so much the speech as the atmosphere of it.  Those who heard and saw were stirred with wonder, for Destiny lay bare that instant, just as the powers above are sometimes revealed at a single lightning-bolt.  Mr. Walpole made a reply that strove hard to be indifferent; Mr. Marmaduke stuttered, for he was frightened, as little souls are apt to be at such times.  But my Lord Comyn, forever natural, forever generous, cried out heartily:—­

“Egad, captain, there you are a true sailor!  Which would you rather have been, I say, William Shakespeare or Sir Francis?”

“Which would you rather be, Richard,” said Dolly to me, under her breath, “Horace Walpole or Captain John Paul?  I begin to like your captain better.”

Willy nilly, Mr. Walpole was forever doing me a service.  Now, in order to ignore the captain more completely, he sat him down to engage Mr. and Mrs. Manners.  Comyn was soon hot in an argument with John Paul concerning the seagoing qualities of a certain frigate, every rope and spar of which they seemed to know.  And so I stole a few moments with Dorothy.

“You are going to take the captain to Maryland, Richard?” she asked, playing with her fan.

“I intend to get him the Belle of the Tye.  ’Tis the least I can do.  For I am at my wits’ end how to reward him, Dolly.  And when are you coming back?” I whispered earnestly, seeing her silent.

“I would that I knew, Richard,” she replied, with a certain sadness that went to my heart, as tho’ the choice lay beyond her.  Then she changed.  “Richard, there was more in Mr. Lloyd’s letter than mamma told you of.  There was ill news of one of your friends.”

“News!”

She looked at me fixedly, and then continued, her voice so low that I was forced to bend over: 

“Yes.  You were not told that Patty Swain fell in a faint when she heard of your disappearance.  You were not told that the girl was ill for a week afterwards.  Ah, Richard, I fear you are a sad flirt.  Nay, you may benefit by the doubt,—­perchance you are going home to be married.”

You may be sure that this intelligence, from Dorothy’s lips, only increased my trouble and perplexity.

“You say that Patty has been ill?”

“Very ill,” says she, with her lips tight closed.

“Indeed, I grieve to hear of it,” I replied; “but I cannot think that my accident had anything to do with the matter.”

“Young ladies do not send their fathers to coffee-houses to prevent duels unless their feelings are engaged,” she flung back.

“You have heard the story of that affair, Dorothy.  At least enough of it to do me justice.”

She was plainly agitated.

“Has Lord Comyn—­”