For a moment Barbara was hardly conscious of
what was happening about her. It seemed only an instant ago that she had
cried out, and now naked swords and the shadow of death. Lord Rosmore's
face looked evil, sinister, devilish. Fellowes was flushed with wine,
unsteady, taken by surprise. There came to Barbara the sudden conviction
that in some manner Fellowes had fallen into a trap. He had insulted
her, but the wine was the cause, and Rosmore had seized the opportunity
for his own ends. She tried to speak, but could not. There was a fierce
lunge, real and deadly meaning in it, an unsteady parry which barely
turned swift death aside, and then a sudden low sound from several
voices, and an excited shuffle of feet. Barbara had rushed forward and
thrown herself between the fighters.
"This is mere trickery," she cried. "You play a coward's part, my lord,
fighting with a drunken man."
"He insulted you--that sufficed for me."
"I did not ask you to punish him," she answered.
She faced Lord Rosmore, shielding Fellowes, who was behind her. Now
Fellowes gently touched her arm.
"Grant me your pardon, Mistress Lanison, and then let me pay the
penalty," he said.
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