Chapter 9 - Page 2

down upon the tessellated
pavement of the hall.

When Cashel gave him the lie, and pushed the door against him, the
excitement he had been suppressing since his visit to Lucian
exploded. He had thrown Cashel in Cornish fashion, and now
desperately awaited the upshot.

Cashel got up so rapidly that he seemed to rebound from the flags.
Bashville, involuntarily cowering before his onslaught, just escaped
his right fist, and felt as though his heart had been drawn with it
as it whizzed past his ear. He turned and fled frantically
up-stairs, mistaking for the clatter of pursuit the noise with which
Cashel, overbalanced by his ineffectual blow, stumbled against the
banisters.

Lydia was in her boudoir with Alice when Bashville darted in and
locked the door. Alice rose and screamed. Lydia, though startled,
and that less by the unusual action than by the change in a familiar
face which she had never seen influenced by emotion before, sat
still and quietly asked what was the matter. Bashville checked
himself for a moment. Then he spoke unintelligibly, and went to the
window, which he opened. Lydia divined that he was about to call for
help to the street.

"Bashville," she said, authoritatively: "be silent, and close the
window. I will go down-stairs myself."

Bashville then ran to prevent her from unlocking the door; but she
paid no attention to him. He did not dare to oppose her forcibly. He
was beginning to recover from his panic, and to feel the first
stings of shame for having yielded to it.

"Madam," he said: "Byron is below; and he insists on seeing you.
He's dangerous; and he's too strong for me. I have done my best--on
my honor I have. Let me call the police. Stop," he added, as she
opened the door. "If either of us goes, it must be me."

"I will see him in the library," said Lydia, composedly. "Tell him
so; and let him wait there for me--if you can approach him without
running any risk."

"Oh, pray let him call the police," urged Alice. "Don't attempt to
go to that man."

"Nonsense!" said Lydia, good-humoredly. "I am not in the least
afraid. We must not fail in courage when we have a prize-fighter to
deal with."

Bashville, white, and preventing with difficulty his knees from
knocking together, went down-stairs and found Cashel leaning upon
the balustrade, panting, and looking perplexedly about him as he
wiped his dabbled brow. Bashville approached him with the firmness
of a martyr, halted on the third stair, and said,

"Miss Carew will see you in the library. Come this way, please."

Cashel's lips moved, but no