Their armament fights against you, a host of gallant phantoms. And my
hatred, too, fights against you--the cur's bitter hatred for the mastering
hand it dares not bite. I dare now. You made me your pander, you slew my
manhood; in return, body and soul, I demolish you. Even my hatred for that
woman fights against you; she robbed me of my honor--is it not a tragical
revenge to save her honor, to hold it in my hand, mine, to dispose of as
I elect,--and then fling it to her as a thing contemptible? Between you,
you have ruined me; but it is Simon's hour to-night. I shame you both, and
past the reach of thought, for presently I shall take your life--in the
high-tide of your iniquity, praise God!--and presently I shall give my life
for hers. Ah, I a fey, my Lord! You are a dead man, Vincent Floyer, for the
powers of good and the powers of evil alike contend against you."

He spoke rather sadly than otherwise; and there was a vague trouble in Lord
Rokesle's face, though he shook his head impatiently. "These are fine words
to come from the dirtiest knave unhanged in England."

"Great ends may be attained by petty instruments, my Lord; a filthy turtle
quenched the genius of AEschylus, and they were only common soldiers who
shed the blood that redeemed the world."

Lord Rokesle pished at this. Yet he was strangely unruffled. He saluted
with quietude, as equal to equal, and the two crossed blades.

Simon Orts fought clumsily, but his encroachment was unwavering. From the
first he pressed his opponent with a contained resolution. The Vicar was
as a man fighting in a dream--with a drugged obstinacy, unswerving. Lord
Rokesle had wounded him in the arm, but Orts did not seem aware of this.
He crowded upon his master. Now there were little beads of sweat on Lord
Rokesle's brow, and his tongue protruded from his mouth, licking at it