“That was nate,” said Michael Hennessey, sententiously.

Richard stood leaning on the gate-post to recover he breath.  His face was colorless, and the crimson line defined itself sharply against the pallor; but the rage was dead within him.  It had been one of his own kind of rages,—­like lightning out of a blue sky.  As he stood there a smile was slowly gathering on his lip.

A score or two of the men had followed him, and now lounged in a half-circle a few paces in the rear.  When Richard was aware of their presence, the glow came into his eyes again.

“Who ordered you to knock off work?”

“That was a foul blow of Torrini’s, sir,” said Stevens, stepping forward, “and I for one come to see fair play.”

“Give us your ’and, mate!” cried Denyven; “there’s a pair of us.”

“Thanks,” said Richard, softening at once, “but there’s no need.  Every man can go to his job.  Denyven may stay, if he likes.”

The men lingered a moment, irresolute, and returned to the sheds in silence.

Presently Torrini stretched out one leg, then the other, and slowly rose to his feet, giving a stupid glance at his empty hands as he did so.

“Here’s your tool,” said Richard, stirring the chisel with the toe of his boot, “if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Torrini advanced a step as if to pick it up, then appeared to alter his mind, hesitated perhaps a dozen seconds, and turning abruptly on his heel walked down the street without a stagger.

“I think his legs is shut off from the rest of his body by water-tight compartments,” remarked Denyven, regarding Torrini’s steady gait with mingled amusement and envy.  “Are you hurt, sir?”

“Only a bit of a scratch of the heye,” replied Richard, with a laugh.

“As I hobserved just now to Mr. Stevens, sir, there’s a pair of us!”

XIII

After a turn through the shops to assure himself that order was restored, Richard withdrew in the direction of his studio.  Margaret was standing at the head of the stairs, half hidden by the scarlet creeper which draped that end of the veranda.

“What are you doing there?” said Richard looking up with a bright smile.

“Oh, Richard, I saw it all!”

“You didn’t see anything worth having white cheeks about.”

“But he struck you . . . with the knife, did he not?” said Margaret, clinging to his arm anxiously.

“He didn’t have a knife, dear; only a small chisel, which couldn’t hurt any one.  See for yourself; it is merely a cat-scratch.”

Margaret satisfied herself that it was nothing more; but she nevertheless insisted on leading Richard into the workshop, and soothing the slight inflammation with her handkerchief dipped in arnica and water.  The elusive faint fragrance of Margaret’s hair as she busied herself about him would of itself have consoled Richard for a deep wound.  All this pretty solicitude and ministration was new and sweet to him, and when the arnica turned out to be cologne, and scorched his cheek, Margaret’s remorse was so delicious that Richard half wished the mixture had been aquafortia.