He had fenced with it. Harriet Payne had been at
Lenfield long enough to understand the estimation in which her master,
Gilbert Crosby, was held; he was not a man to lie deliberately, and she
dared not face him, knowing the part she had played. She had played it
because she loved this other man, but, dispassionately described as
Crosby had told it, the offence she had committed seemed far greater
than she had imagined. If Rosmore had deceived her! The thought burnt
into her soul and sent the hot blood to her cheeks. Was she merely a
silly wench, as were hundreds of others, won by a smooth tongue,
stepping easily down into shame at the bidding of the first man whose
words had enough flattery in them? Was there truth in what the trooper
Watson had suggested? So, with her hand strained against her side, and
leaning forward a little, she watched the play of the swords.
Rosmore was not smiling now. He was a master of fence, had proved it a
dozen times, more than once had sent his man to his account. He had
never yet faced an antagonist whose skill was quite equal to his own.
Even to-night he would not admit to himself that he had found his equal.
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