The trees of the orchard stood out black against a crimson sky. "Faith! it is a color we shall see more of presently," said Laramore, divesting himself of his doublet.

His antagonist, passing a laced handkerchief along a gleaming blade, smiled politely. "A pretty tint. Wine, the lips of women, Captain Laramore's blood—Lard! 'tis a color I adore!"

"Gentlemen!" cried Colonel Verney. "Once more I beg of you to forego this foolish quarrel. William Berkeley, for the first time in your life, be reasonable!"

The Governor turned sharply, his chest, beneath his shirt of finest holland, swelling, each closely cropped hair upon his head, bared for action, stiff with injured dignity.

"Colonel Richard Verney forgets himself," he began angrily; then, "Confound you, Dick! keep your hands out of this. I don't want to fight you too! I say not that this gentleman is disloyal, but I do say, and I will maintain it with the last drop of my blood, that he strives to draw to himself a party in the State, with what intent he best knows. If he choose to pocket that assertion and withdraw, I am content."

"On guard, sir," said Carrington, raising his sword.

The Colonel shrugged his shoulders, and returned to his post beside Mr. Peyton.

"Very well, gentlemen, since you will not be ruled. Are you ready?"

The rapiers clashed together, and the game began.

The Governor fenced brilliantly, if a trifle wildly; his antagonist with a cool steadiness of manner and an iron wrist. Laramore fought with bull-like ferocity, striving to beat down his opponent's guard, making mad lunges, stamping, and keeping up a continuous rumble of oaths. Sir Charles, always smiling, and with an air as if his thoughts were anywhere but at that particular spot, put aside his thrusts with the ease with which the toreador avoids the bull.

Mr. Peyton was moved to reluctant admiration. "When I was in London, sir," he said in an excited whisper to the Colonel, "I did see Mathews fight with Westwicke, and thought I had seen fencing indeed, but your cousin—ah!"

Laramore's sword described a curve in the air, and lodged in the boughs of an apple-tree, while its owner staggered forward and fell heavily to the ground. At the same instant Carrington wounded the Governor in the wrist. Colonel Verney struck up the weapons. "By the Lord, gentlemen! you shall go no further! Jack Laramore's down, run through the shoulder! Major Carrington, you have drawn blood—it is enough."

"If Sir William Berkeley is content," began Carrington, bowing to his antagonist.

"Rat me! I've no choice," said the Governor ruefully. "You've disabled my sword arm, and the gout has the other."

"I shall be happy to wait until the wound shall have healed," said the Surveyor-General, with another bow.

"No, no," said his Excellency, with a laugh. "We'll cry quits. And rat me! if now that we have had it out, I do not love thee better, Miles Carrington, than ever I did before. In the morning when thou goest home, burn thy library, burn Milton and Bastwick, and Withers, and the rest of the rogues, forswear such rascally company forever, and rat me! if I will not maintain that thou art the honestest, as well as the longest-headed, man in the colony. There's my hand on it, and to-night we'll have a rouse such as would make old Noll turn in his grave if he had one."

Carrington took the proffered hand courteously, if coldly. "I thank your Excellency for your advice. Your Excellency should have your wound attended to at once. You are losing a deal of blood."

"Tut, a trifle!" said the Governor, airily, winding a handkerchief about the bleeding member.

"Is there ever a chirurgeon upon the place?" asked Sir Charles in his most dulcet tones. "If not, I fear that Captain Laramore will very shortly make his last voyage."

"Egad! that will never do!" cried the Colonel, dropping upon his knees beside the wounded man. "A bad thrust! Charles, thou art the very devil!"

"Shall I ride for the doctor?" cried Mr. Peyton.

"No. Anthony Nash is at the house. Run, lad, and fetch him. He is surgeon as well as divine."

Mr. Peyton disappeared; and presently there stood in the midst of the group gathered about the unconscious captain, a man clad in a clerical dress and of a very dignified and scholarly demeanor.

"Ha, gentlemen!" he said gravely, looking with bright, dark eyes from one to the other. "This is a sorry business. Shirts, drawn rapiers, trampled turf, Sir William bleeding, Captain Laramore senseless upon the ground! His Excellency the Governor; Major Carrington, the Surveyor-General; Colonel Verney, the lieutenant of the shire;—scandalous, gentlemen!"

"And Anthony Nash who would give his chance of a mitre to have been one of us," cried the Governor. "Ha! Anthony! dost remember the fight behind Paul's, three to one,—and the baggage that brought it about?"

The divine, on his knees beside Laramore, looked up with a twinkle in his eye from his work of tying laced handkerchiefs into bandages. "That was in the dark ages, your Excellency. My memory goeth not back so far. Ha! that is better! He is coming to himself. It is not so bad after all."

Laramore groaned, opened his eyes, and struggled into a sitting posture.

"Blast me! but I am properly spitted. Sir Charles Carew, my compliments to you. You are a man after my own heart. Ha, your Excellency! I find myself in good company. Dr. Anthony Nash, I shall have you out! You have torn the handkerchief Mistress Lettice Verney gave me."

The Doctor laughed. "You must be got to the house at once, and to bed, where Mistress Lettice, who is as skillful in healing as in making wounds, shall help me to properly dress this one."

Laramore staggered to his feet. "Give me an arm, Doctor; and Peyton, clap my periwig upon my head, will you? and fetch me my sword from where I see it, adorning yonder bough. Sir Charles Carew, I am your humble servant. Damme! it's no disgrace to be worsted by the best sword at Whitehall." And the gallant captain, supported by the clergyman and Mr. Peyton, reeled off the ground; the remainder of the party waiting only to assume doublets and wigs before following him to the house.

Two hours later Sir Charles Carew rose from the supper-table, and leaving the gentlemen at wine, passed into the great room, and came softly up to Patricia, sitting at the spinet.

"My heart was not there," he said, answering her smile and lifted brows. "I am come in search of it."

She laughed, fingering the keys. "Did you leave it on the field of honor? Fie, sir, for shame! Doctor Nash says that Captain Laramore will not use his arm for a fortnight."

"What—" said Sir Charles, dropping his voice and leaning over her—"what if I had been the wounded one?"

"I would have made your gruel with great pleasure, cousin."

She laughed again, and looked at him half tenderly, half mockingly. There were silver candlesticks upon the spinet and the light from the tall wax tapers fell with a white radiance over the slender figure in brocade and lace, the gleaming shoulders, the beautiful face, and the shining hair. Her eyes were brilliant, her mouth all elusive, mocking, exquisite curves.

He raised a wandering lock of gold to his lips. "The King hath written, commanding me home to England," he said abruptly.

"Yes, my father told me. He says the King loves you much."

Sir Charles left her side, twice walked the length of the room, and came back to her. "Am I to go as I came—alone?" he asked, standing before her with folded arms.

"If you so desire, sir?"

"Will you go with me?"

"Yes."

He caught her in his arms; but she cried out and freed herself.

"No, no, not yet!" she said breathlessly. "Listen to me."

She moved backwards a step or two, and stood facing him, her hand at her bosom, a color in her cheek, her eyes like stars. "I do not know that I love you, Sir Charles Carew. At times I have thought that I did; at times, not. There is an unrest here," touching her heart, "which has come to me lately. I do not know—it may be the beginning of love. Last night my father had much talk with me. It is his dearest wish that you and I should wed. He has been my very good father always. If you will take me as I am, not loving you yet, but with a heart free to learn, why—" Her voice broke.

Sir Charles flung himself at her feet, and, taking possession of her hands, covered them with kisses. A voice passed the window, singing through the night:—

"Margery again?" said Sir Charles, rising.

"Yes," said Patricia, with a troubled voice.

The voice began the stanza again:—

"What is the matter?" cried Sir Charles in alarm.

Patricia stared at him with wide, unseeing eyes. "Martinmas wind," she said in a low, clear, even voice. "Martinmas wind! The leaves drift in clouds, yellow and red, red like blood. Look at the river flowing in the sunshine! And the tall gray crags! Ah!" and she put her hands before her face.

"What is it?" cried her suitor. "What is the matter? You are ill!"

She dropped her hands. "I am well now," she said tremulously. "I do not know what it was. I had a vision—" she broke into wild laughter.

"I am fey, I think," she cried. "Let me go to my room; I am better there."

He held the door open, and she passed him quickly with lowered eyes. He watched her run up the stairs, and then threw himself into a chair and stared thoughtfully at the floor.