Orts dropped the book and, springing into the arm-chair, wrested Aluric
Floyer's sword from its fastening. "Tricked, tricked!" said Simon Orts.
"You were always a fool, Vincent Floyer."

Lord Rokesle blinked at him, as if dazzled by unexpected light. "What d'ye
mean?"

"I have the honor to repeat--you are a fool, I did not know the place was
guarded--you told me. I needed privacy; by your orders no one is to enter
here to-night. I needed a sword--you had it hanging here, ready for the
first comer. Oh, beyond doubt, you are a fool, Vincent Floyer!" Standing
in the arm-chair, Simon Orts bowed fantastically, and then leaped to the
ground with the agility of an imp.

"You have tricked me neatly," Lord Rokesle conceded, and his tone did not
lack honest admiration. "By gad, I have even given them orders to pass
you--after you have murdered me! Exceedingly clever, Simon,--but one thing
you overlooked. You are very far from my match at fencing. So I shall
presently kill you. And afterward, ceremony or no ceremony, the woman's
mine."

"I am not convinced of that," the Vicar observed. "'Tis true I am no
swordsman; but there are behind my sword forces superior to any which
skill might muster. The sword of your fathers fights against you, my
Lord--against you that are their disgrace. They loved honor and truth; you
betrayed honor, you knew not truth. They revered womanhood; you reverence
nothing, and your life smirches your mother's memory. Ah, believe me,
they all fight against you! Can you not see them, my Lord?--yonder at my
back?--old Aluric Floyer and all those honest gentlemen, whose blood now
blushes in your body--ay, blushes to be confined in a vessel so ignoble!